Down Came the Rain - Retold
by PippinStrange
Summary: Peter Parker is abducted and brutally tortured for information on the Avengers by a New York cop. He deals poorly with the psychological aftermath of the event and sets out to find his own kind of justice - but at what cost? Bridges the gap between Homecoming and Infinity War, a chronological rewrite of a previously posted story. Spoilers for Spider-Man Homecoming. Whump/angst
1. Aunt May Finds Out

Dear Readers,

This is a repost and rewrite of my post-Homecoming/Pre-Infinity War Spider-Man fic. If you were a fan or a reader of the last version, which was written in a non-linear 13 Reasons Why style of storytelling, you'll find this one has been improved in a lot of ways! Plot holes, fixed. Character development, more obvious. Scheduling issues? A thing, but also fixed ;) Mostly you'll find it works as a great bridge between Homecoming and Infinity War, right from the end credits of Homecoming to the first shot of Peter in Infinity War. I worked really hard on this chronological version and hope it excites my readers as much as I enjoyed making it! There will be appropriate trigger warnings or tags at the beginnings of chapters for difficult content such as torture and suicide references.

Read on, my dears!

Love,

Pip

* * *

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Prologue

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* * *

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...

"HEY!" I try to reply, but I can't.

"HEY!" a gruff voice, threatening.

"Thank you, I'll keep that in mind," I remember saying, with a smile. _SPLASH._

"You're welcome, Spider-Man."

"Nice to meet you!"

I remember this, too.

But I'm hacking and coughing and...

"Wake up, Spider-Man."

 _I'm awake._

I blink and look around.

What's happening...

Where am I?

Who is this?

What time is it?

Is it… is it still tuesday evening?

It's so dark.

 _Help._

"I'm talking to you. Wake UP."

I feel a slap across my face, head snapping painfully to one side, my eyes fighting through the squint of stinging flesh to look up at the man standing in front of me. I'm definitely awake now.

"There you are. Good evening, Spider-Man. Welcome to consciousness. This will likely be the first of several times we wake you up like this. How was it? Bucket of water in the face okay? Should I just stick with the slap next time?"

A face leers into mine. "I'm new at this," he says, "but I drew a short straw."

I've never seen this man before.

" _If you need anything, I'm living in Morris Park with my parents right now. Okay?"_ the woman had smiled at me, so kindly. " _I want you to know where we are. In case you ever need somewhere to go."_

That's the last thing I remember... I don't know how this is happening.

I remember going home… from school? Or maybe something afterwards. Maybe a rescue. I remember a fire. A woman.

Then there was a flash-bang, like a grenade. A blood spray on a brick wall that seemed to come from _me._ And then… there was a police officer. Police mean… help. Help and safety - right?

 _Help me. Someone. Anyone._

I knew help was coming; and then, it suddenly wasn't.

"I've never been the type of guy to hurt people," he says, "But then again, I am really not opposed to sticking a bug with a pin. It's for science."

"I'm not scared of you," I lie hoarsely. I can smell smoke - taste it in my mouth. Blood and smoke on my tongue and between my teeth.

But I am. I am more scared than I have ever been in my life. More scared than when the building dropped down on top of me. More scared than the night he… when he… died.

 _Maybe I'll see Uncle Ben sooner than I thought._

"I am not scared," I lie again, my voice catching.

He picks up a knife, the handle made of iridescent pearl. "We'll see."

...

...

* * *

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One: Where Aunt May Finds Out

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* * *

...

...

I have my suit back. And it's perfect. Like I was never parted from it - like the whole mess with the ferry didn't happen. I'd been forgiven, I could see that now.

"What the FUCK?" May's voice shrieks inhumanly from my bedroom door.

How is it that she can sneak up on me? People shouldn't be able to; I'm _Spider-Man._ I have extra sensory talents. And she's… like my mom.

I've heard that a mom has a seventh, eighth, and ninth sense when it comes to their kids screwing up. And spider-talents or not, I know that I screwed this up. _Big time._

"Aunt May," I turn around slowly, holding out my hands defensively, beseechingly. "This is... not... what it looks like."

"THEN WHAT IS IT?" she snarls. "What is it? And I swear to God - if you lie to me - if you are _contemplating_ a lie right now - don't. I would rather hear _nothing_ than a lie. Nothing." She holds up a finger when I open my mouth. "Don't, even, _think_ about it."

I shut my mouth. The excuses just won't fly. Costume? Cosplay? Party?

Anything other than the truth.

"You," she points at me, her face so dark with confusion and earth-shattering anger that it is terrifying to behold. "You change into something _normal._ And be out here in _five minutes._ "

I open my mouth and shut it again, and then reconsider.

"A-Aunt May?" I ask in a small voice, the smallest I can manage. "It... it will take me less than... um... five minutes to change... um. Do you... do you want me sooner?"

Aunt May turns away from me and steps into the hallway.

"No," she answers, her tone so dismal that it makes me wish the floor would just swallow me whole. "The five minutes are _not_ for you. They're for me."

Then she slams the door with such hulk-like strength that my framed posted falls from the wall and lands behind the dresser with a resounding crash.

…

I change into a gray t-shirt and jeans, watching the clock.

At the five minute mark exactly, I walk into the living room. May sits like a statue in the chair, fingers folded and pressed in her lap, glasses shoved so far into the bridge of her nose she'll probably bruise herself. She stares at me.

"SIT," she says darkly. "On the couch."

I sit obediently, mirroring her movements. Hands folded, though more loosely, hanging over my knees.

"Speak," she says shortly, looking at me with narrowed eyes. "Now."

"I..." my voice cracks. _Shit._

I wasn't going to get _sad_ over this. I am a teenager. I am supposed to be defensive, angry, slam a door or two... stick up to her. Tell her I am no one's kid. I am Spider-Man. And I'll do whatever I deem necessary!

"I am so, so sorry I didn't tell you," I say, my voice giving out unashamedly. Or the exact opposite of ALL of that.

I guess we're going the sad route. I'm sad that I hurt her. Sorry that I made the _one_ person who has always had my back feel like she couldn't trust me. I want her trust more than anything. Hurting someone with a punch in the eye is different than hurting a bond you have with someone.

"I am sorry, Aunt May," I repeat earnestly, clenching my hands together. I'm not really crying, my eyes are just… leaking. "It was - dishonest. I was wrong. I shouldn't have kept this a secret. I am so, so sorry."

"The internship," Aunt May says brusquely. "That was a lie, wasn't it? There was no internship."

"Sorta," I answer. "But technically, no. The internship _is_ being... Spider-Man. Sort of a... member…"

"My god," she says hoarsely. "Don't tell me…"

"...of the Avengers," I finish.

"Dear god in heaven," her breath hitches. " _That's_ not I was led to believe an _internship_ was."

"I didn't explain that the internship didn't involve robotics testing," I rattle off. "Or chemistry. Or spreadsheets. Getting managers their coffee. Or anything that you probably thought the internship involves."

The silence is thick and heavy.

"I did not tell you to stop talking," Aunt May snaps.

"Oh, right, um," I sniff loudly and wipe my eyes on the back of my hand, looking up at her. She contemplates me with love, and worry, and fear... mostly fear. Fear of me, I wonder? Or fear of losing me to something she doesn't understand?

"Do you want me to start at the beginning?" I ask meekly.

"Yes," she says simply. "Will you be telling me the truth?"

"Yes, Aunt May."

"All of it?" she adds.

Maybe I imagine it, but I swear her eyes flick over to the small framed portrait on the end table of her and Uncle Ben on their wedding day.

"You don't want to know all of it," I whisper brokenly, looking down and lacing my fingers behind my head. I hear her stand up and move across the room slowly.

The couch shifts as Aunt May lowers herself beside me, hesitantly placing her hand on my back. "Try me," she says. "Seriously. It's now or never. And I'm not going anywhere."

I shift away from her. She wouldn't want to be this close to me if she knew that Uncle Ben's death was my fault...

She retracts her hand, hurt again.

"We went on a school trip," I begin. "And there was this... _display_ about radioactive effects on insects... of all things..."

I begin the word vomit like I'm at a confessional.

In a few short minutes, I feel her body language change, sitting away from me, her muscles tensing as if getting ready to bolt - as if she knows what's coming.

"And then Uncle Ben…" I try, but I'm unable to finish.

For a moment it seems as if she can't catch her breath. She stands abruptly from the couch and paces to the window, taking a moment to collect herself, crossing her elbows over her chest… the body language of protection, self-preservation. Defense. From me.

Then she walks back very slowly, touches my face, raising my chin to force me to make eye contact.

Her face is blotchy with contained grief. "It wasn't your fault," she says quietly.

"Yes - yes - it was, yes _it was_ ," I sob. I pull my face out of her hand and look down again in overwhelming shame. "It was my fault... It was my fault."

It's almost a full blown panic attack now, my voice shifting to a rarely accessed higher-octave. "I'm so sorry. _I'm so sorry."_

She walks to the window again, her shoulders shaking. She waits until I've cried myself out. She makes no move to try and make me stop, or even comfort me. Which is preferable... I don't want her _comfort._ I want her to tell me she agrees. Anything to make me feel justified.

I cough. "I'm sorry," I whisper again. "If I could go back... if there was a _way_ to go back and change what happened... even if it meant I died in his place... I'd do it. Over and over again."

"It wasn't your fault," she repeats, in a monotone.

"Yes it was."

"Peter Parker," she says again. "It wasn't your fault."

Somewhere out of my grief, an inappropriate hint of laughter tries to surface, but I suppress it. "Your favorite scene… from G-g-goodwill Hunting... isn't going to work... on me."

I can feel her smirk before shaking her head.

"Would you believe anything else?" she asks sadly. "Even if I tried to convince you otherwise; took you back to counseling, signed you up with a shrink... did everything in my power to make you believe it wasn't your fault... would it work?"

I shake my head. _No._

"Do you _want_ me to blame you?"

 _Yes._

"If you can acknowledge my responsibility," I take a shuddering breath. "Maybe I can learn live with it."

"Okay," she says simply. "If that's what you need." She returns to my side. "Then I guess you need to understand that I forgive you," she says. "And I don't blame you."

 _She doesn't blame me,_ I think. _How can she not blame me?_

"I miss him," she says. "Every day. I know you do too. I _know_ you'll carry this with you and there's nothing I can do to change it. But.. I don't blame you. I _don't. I won't._ Any doubt I'd ever have... if you could have prevented what happened... I refuse to let it destroy what I have left. And that's you. You're all I have left. And I love you to death." She sits beside me again and wraps her arms around my head.

We both cry. I feel every ounce of grief again, and yet relief. A weight gone from my chest that I didn't realize was holding me down so fully… the fact that Uncle Ben's death had always been tied to Spider-Man. Keeping the suit a secret meant I was constantly bearing the full burden of truth - of Uncle Ben - away from her. And she doesn't deserve that - she never has. But maybe I do.

 _I don't deserve her forgiveness._

…

It's been an hour. And we've done nothing but talk.

"So they held the guy responsible for, like, uh… killing the King of Wakanda in the explosion. I don't even think he was guilty though. Neither did Captain America, I guess. It was all really confusing."

I hang from the ceiling with my feet. May's sprawls across the couch with her second glass of wine. "And then what happened?" she asks tiredly.

"Well, then, Mr. Stark told me I was done, and the fight ended - for the most part. I mean, what I was meant to do, anyway. I was just there to put another super-strong person on his side, not enforce any laws or arrest anyone. No one was really trying to hurt anyone, just _stop_ them, to convince them to turn the metal-armed guy in. Of course they didn't actually tell me that either until _later._ All I knew was that we were stopping Captain America before he made a huge mistake that could hurt a lot of people by accident. It's… kind of annoying, actually. The lack of context."

May makes a _hmph_ sound.

"But it was fine, it was fine," I assure. "They were friends, you know? Friends disagree all the time, right? Mr. Stark and Captain America saved New York when the aliens invaded. As a team. You don't just forget something like that."

Aunt May shudders. She doesn't like remembering that day. "Would you consider them _friends?"_ she asks in disbelief. "Someone who asks you to help defend the universe until you have a disagreement? And then they turn on you? I don't like you getting mixed up in that. I don't."

"No, Aunt May," I lower myself from the ceiling and sit on the floor beside the couch. "It's not like that. Really."

"Being with this team is going to get you killed," she whispers, taking a generous gulp of the last bit of wine. "Maybe it was just a bad guy who hypothetically killed a king this time, but what about next time? What if the aliens come back? What if _another_ agency entrusted to protect us turns into a terrorist organization made of Nazis? Don't think I didn't read the news, or pester Mr. Stark with questions when he showed up out of the blue the first time." She looks down at her empty glass as if it personally insults her.

"Do you want another one?" I ask carefully. "I'll get you a…"

"Forget it, you're not old enough to serve alcohol," she snaps, setting it down a little too hard on the end table. "What happened after Germany? Were you involved in that shit with the Stark plane that went down on the beach?"

I pause, squinting. "I might be the one that took it down?"

"Jesus _Christ!_ You knocked down a PLANE? How fucking strong are you, anyway?"

…

When I've finally caught up to the present, including turning down a more permanent position with the Avengers, my hair is standing straight up off my head from all the times Aunt May distractedly ran her hand through it. I can tell she's relieved.

"I'm proud of you for turning it down," she says sleepily. "As for the rest..."

"I know..."

"You could have _died._ A hundred times."

"I know - but - not easily. Not really."

"Peter, I can't do this alone."

"I know."

"Don't die out there," she urges. "You can't - you can't do that to me. Please. Promise."

"I promise," I reply.

Silence falls.

"So you're going to let me keep this up?" I hesitate to ask, dreading the response.

"It appears I cannot 'let' or 'not let' you do anything," she responds rather bitterly. "Because if I 'not-let' you, you sneak out and do it anyway, and then _lie_ about it."

I'm not going to argue that.

"Aunt May," I declare, "It was absolutely my intention to protect you from the truth. Not because I was ashamed of being Spider-Man but because I don't want bad guys out there to figure out who matters most to me."

May shakes her head and looks away, not believing me.

"If someone like Toomes had escaped; he would have come after you," I continue. "He didn't necessarily know who you were... but he could've just asked Liz. Anyone at school, really. He told me as much… he said he'd kill everyone I loved."

Aunt May is silent.

"I am not going to lose you too," I go on. "But I can't give up being Spider-Man, either. I am him. It's not just an outfit. It's the powers I have now; and who I am. Who I want to be."

" _Fuck,_ " Aunt May lets out a loud sound, almost like another sob, but not quite there. "Who the hell would I be to tell their kid _not_ to be a hero?"

She gets up from the couch, feeling the effects of the wine. She stumbles towards the hall. "I am... going to bed," she says abruptly. "I am going to go to my room and I'm going to make a knife and get drunk and let myself be angry and sad for awhile. And YOU... you will stay _in_ this apartment. You understand? If you sneak out tonight _the great Thor almighty_ could not protect you from me. Got it?"

"Yes, Aunt May."

"You promise?"

"I _promise."_

"Promises are good!" she exclaims loudly... tipsier than she believes she is. "They're so VERY honorable! But," she glances at me. "You could be lying. I don't know. It'll be awhile before I can _know._ I used to think I _did_ know."

"I am not lying... I swear. Not now. Since you know. I won't. I can't."

"Then we will discuss ground rules... tomorrow." She goes to a kitchen cupboard, pulls out a bottle of vodka I had never seen before, and a grape soda out of the fridge. Then she walks crookedly to her bedroom door and shuts it firmly behind her.

I sit on the couch alone. Lonelier than ever.

I pull out my phone and text Happy. Ever since Moving Day, he's been slightly more… _available_ by text message. He actually texts me back now as long as I'm sharing some news of importance.

* * *

You - Aunt May knows. Oops.

Happy - …

Happy - …

Happy - OK ?! 4:p How?

You - walked in unexpectedly

You - I was wearing my suit

You - Thanks btw… you & Mr. Stark… for the old suit back

Happy - well we can't let you out in pajamas it's embarrassing

You - Sorry :P

Happy - we'll just hold on to the new suit for you in case of emergency, k?

You - how will I know what qualifies as an emergency?

Happy - I'm sure we'll know

Happy - How's your aunt?

You - drinking alone in her room?

Happy - that's what happens when the cats out of the bag like that

* * *

Chuckling, I send a gif of a spider running across a kitchen floor.

* * *

You - you mean spider is out of the bag

Happy - that's not funny

Happy - arachnophobia is real

You - sorry :) night Happy

Happy - you're a good kid

Happy - take care of your aunt

* * *

I shut my phone off and take a deep breath. Tonight was a good example of me utterly failing to care for her… and she putting everything aside to care for me, even her own grief. I just hope I can show her what I can do, and it will ease her fears.

...

* * *

...

 **Coming Up Next:**

Time for Spider-Man to go back to school with a list of rules keeping him 'grounded' but just how much do we expect those rules to really work, anyway?


	2. Ground Rules

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Two: The Ground Rules

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* * *

...

...

I adjust the strap on my backpack and shut my locker door. For a moment I press my forehead against the cold metal. It feels good, while I don't feel good at all.

I sense someone step close behind me, but nothing less than normal with the typical crowded hallways.

"Hey Peter!" barks Ned behind my shoulder. I flinch and came to rapt attention, spinning around quickly.

"Whoops, sorry," he snickers. "What's wrong with you? I usually can't sneak up on you."

"Didn't sleep much last night," I reply, "Aunt May knows."

"She KNOWS?" Ned repeats way too loudly. "How does she KNOW?"

"Shhh… pretty much the same way you found out."

Ned pauses. "She wanted to build the Death Star?"

"She saw me sneaking around in my room in the suit, Ned!" I hiss, glancing around.

"I thought you didn't have... it... anymore!" he replies. "I would have guessed that otherwise!"

"I got it back!" I say exasperatingly. "Mr. Stark let me have it again."

"Wow, so you're totally an Avenger again!"

"Not really, I turned them down."

"What the hell, dude?! You're going to have to back way up." He blinks and made a whirring sound as if going back in time. "What?" he gasps, in the same tone as before. "Aunt May KNOWS?"

I thrust a piece of paper at him. "This is what she and I discussed this morning when she woke me up at six a.m."

"Six? That's brutal." Ned unfolds the paper and reads.

* * *

Ground Rules

1\. Report where you are planning to go after school

2\. Report when you estimate arrival at home

3\. Just report all shit in general.

4\. No more sneaking out of your bedroom window, use the front door like a normal person

5\. Tell me goodbye before you leave

6\. Stopping crimes does not take precedence over homework - if your grades slip away, so will your costume

7\. I expect regular updates as much as you would expect them from Tony Stark

8\. Make your damn bed

* * *

"Whoa," Ned breathes. "She's gone a little psycho."

"Believe me," I say. "It could have been so much worse. You're missing the most important thing about this."

"What's that?"

"She's going to let me continue. I can still be Spider-Man."

"Ooooh."

"You're grounded too, though."

"Me? How am I grounded?"

"For knowing about it and not coming clean. She's pissed. She said we can't do the Black Glove marathon next weekend like we planned."

"It's okay I guess," Ned shrugs, trying to put a good face on it. "Black Glove is sort of lame anyway. I heard the new movie wasn't as good as the first one either."

"My neighbor already told me I could borrow his advanced copy of the director's cut with all the scenes with Marvelous added back in."

Ned's face falls. "What? Nooooo. This is the worst."

…

When the final bell rings at last, I walk dutifully to detention. I'm going to have detention for the rest of my life thanks to my previous ditching.

Ned's in detention too, though he refuses to say why, only that he had been caught playing on the computers during homecoming while he was my guy in the chair.

Not exactly sure what happened there, and I feel badly about it. He was only on the computers because I asked for his help. Either way, his cover story had to be pretty terrible to land him here too. But he has twice refused to say what his excuse was, so I've given up asking.

We whisper too much and get moved to opposite sides of the room.

"Let's discuss some ground rules," says Coach Wilson exhaustedly. "Next time someone breaks detention protocol, and I won't say who... gets expelled. Okay? Now let's all focus here and watch the America's Sweetheart. If you please." He presses play, and a musical intro begins. "Can someone get the lights?"

Michelle steps in the room suddenly, looking around with slight interest and a healthy dose of disdain.

"Michelle, mind getting the lights?" Coach Wilson asks.

Michelle quickly walks out again as if she'd given up on us.

Captain America's voice echoes after her.

"One of the most important lessons I learned was respecting authority," Captain America says in the video, one finger held high.

"Please get the lights, Jacob," Coach Wilson says to the boy closest to the fixture.

"That's important to know for a soldier like me..."

I tilt my head and listen to the video about obedience and submitting to those who have power over you. Steve Rogers? Respecting and obeying authority? He does like, the exact opposite. I guess that's what happens when the government threatens to take down your metal-arm assassin friend… a story that I still wasn't entirely sure was true, as I got the half-assed version later from Mr. Stark in the ride home from the airport. Right before I embarrassed the hell out of myself for hugging him when it wasn't even a hug.

Ned tosses a paper airplane my way, but the trajectory is off. Before Coach Wilson notices it, I do an impressively twisted dive out of my desk, catch it before it hits the desk beside me, and slip back into the seat and plant my chin in my hand thoughtfully just as Coach Wilson turns to see why he heard a thump.

When he sees nothing and sighs, returning back to his computer, I open the airplane to read Ned's scrawly handwriting.

Going crime fighting tonight?

I turn and send a grin in his direction.

He smiles huge and nods in reply, mouthing Badass!

...

After detention, I say a hurried goodbye to Ned.

It's spidey-time.

I walk along until I find a good place to slip into the many alleys in the neighborhood, and shimmy my way up the brick and over the edge of the rooftop. I change my clothes on top of the building instead of beside it. Lesson learned. No more missing backpacks.

I crouch at the top of a building, waiting for the inevitable tale of sirens siphoning their way between brick, mortar, and asphalt to reach further distances. I take the opportunity to web my new backpack to a chimney sticking out of the top of the flat apartment roof. It's way less mobile than a dumpster.

"Hey Karen," I ask, "Can you send a message to Aunt May?"

"What would you like me to say?"

"Tell her I'm just doing a little looking around. Tell her I'm sticking close to the neighborhood. I don't know that I'll even venture past..."

I pause.

The lonely wail of police, fire, and ambulance sirens echo across the city.

This is big. Something really, really bad is going down. But I know I can help.

The smoke is across the river. Past Roosevelt island... Manhattan. Great. Not sticking close to the neighborhood after all.

But that's okay, really. The taller the buildings, the better.

"Karen?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"Don't send that text. Send a different one. Say this - Don't worry about me, Aunt May. Rescuing kittens from trees and old ladies from burning buildings. I'm fireproof. I'll be home for dinner."

"The text is incorrect. You're not fireproof."

"She doesn't need to know that."

I launch a strand of web across the alley, jump over the ledge, and feel the cool rush of wind in my ears as I swing around the corner of the opposing building.

I let out a spontaneous whoop of enjoyment that comes with the feeling of flying.

The early afternoon light of Manhattan basks in the setting sun and brown smoke. I feel like it takes me way too long to get there, because when I finally do, I can see the apartment building is completely engulfed by fire, flames thrashing at the windows and dark smoke plummeting out of every crevice.

I grip my web tightly in my hands and make a full, wide-arc, cutting through the air towards the apartment building across the street, landing feet first in the fire escape with a metallic clatter.

Heat and smoke gush out like an artist's rendering of hell. Shimmers appear by windows and streets, barely hinting at the molten heat contained inside the building.

"Hello?" I call down to all the personnel below; firemen, police officers, apartment residents. "Is there anyone still inside?"

A blond woman in her early thirties, maybe late twenties, sees me perched above them. "My DAUGHTER!" She screams, waving wildly to me with both arms. "Sixteenth floor - room 64 - there's a window on the other side!" her screaming catches the attention of the others, and they begin to stare and point. "Close to the corner!" She continues hysterically, pointing. "Please! Please! Get her out! Get her out!"

I got this, I think.

"I got this," I whisper out loud. "Kid needs saving. I know I can do it."

"I'LL GET HER!" I call down, sending a strand of web across the street. I launch myself off the fire escape, swinging a little too close to the heads of the crowd below to get across. Some of them gasp and duck, but I don't have time to apologize as I land against the matching fire escape, the loose metal pieces clanging together at my sudden weight.

I turn and begin to climb up the metal rods of the balcony above me, counting floors. I'm already on four, so... five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight…

...

...

* * *

...

 **Coming Up Next:**

Peter braves the flames of an apartment building engulfed by fire to rescue a child. It seems like any ordinary hero-work, but this triggers a domino-effect of events he could never possibly guess...


	3. The Floor Is Lava

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* * *

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Three: The Floor is Lava

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* * *

...

...

"Sixteenth floor - room sixty four," I whisper, a manta. "Sixteenth floor - room sixty four. This is... this is easy. This is nothing compared to Washington."

It's also a little hotter than Washington.

One-thousand, one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit, five-hundred-ninety-three degrees Celsius hotter.

I can feel hot spots warming my hands beneath the bricks of the building.

It's impossible to tell which apartment is which from the outside, and the woman only specified room sixty four was near the corner. But I don't want to open a window too close to where her kid is hiding. A sudden burst of oxygen will feed the fire, not douse it.

Maybe… maybe the heat inside might even be manageable at this point. Getting in too close could turn it into a raging, impossible inferno, rendering me incapable and simultaneously killing her kid. I could never live with that…

I'll avoid breaking any windows too close to the corner. I'll find my way in from further away and then work my way to the right room from the inside.

I belly crawl across the side of the building, hearing cries and shouts from below as crowds on the side street are beginning to notice my presence. Some point, others call up, some cheering me on and others giving me the the equivalent of back-seat rescue-ing.

I grip the wiry railing of a balcony below floor sixteen and rise up quickly, throwing a fist through the window. Typical of baby-boomer apartment buildings on this side of Manhattan, it's not double-paned and shatters easily.

A titanic rush of hot air spills out in wavering, transparent wrinkles. I gasp and keep my head lowered, kicking aside some of the remaining shards, and slipping into the dark apartment.

It's completely black with smoke, though luckily it begins to immediately siphon out the broken window behind me to the golden New York air.

I drop to my belly. "Uh - okay - Droney," I whisper with a cough, "Find me the door." I can barely see anything in this apartment, only indistinguishable shapes that could be a couch and a recliner. I need to get out into the hallway and find apartment sixty-four.

The spider drone pops off my chest with a happy little whir and buzzes off into the smoke.

It's not a big apartment, but I'd rather risk a robot than my own lungs for as long as possible. Within seconds, it buzzes back, shooting off a laser-like beam into the billowing darkness.

It's pointing exactly where I need to aim.

I've seen those movies where the guy grabs the doorknob only to be maimed for life because the door knob was over five-hundred degrees due to the fire in the hallway. I don't want to be that guy.

I use my web shooter and a streamy white thread shoots off towards where the laser points, and I feel it connect to the door with a splashy thump.

I tap my chest and Droney (Dronie? Spidey Drone? Tiny Spider?) returns to his place.

With a heave, I jerk the web back and hear the knob popping off, hinges snapping, and the bolts breaking. The door falls back into the apartment with a resounding crash, and that's when the flames pour in with frenzied violence.

"SHIT!" I yelp with surprise, dropping my face to the floor again and throwing my arms over my head. It's unbearably hot, but the flames only extend as far as the threshold, before they recede to the door frame and wallpaper, where the smolder begins to eat away at the grain, curling the edges of the wallpaper in orange embers in creepy, jolting movements, like stop-motion animation.

In the hallway, the long rug and partial walls burn with hellish abandon, and I can hear a child screaming.

"Where are you?" I scream back, jumping to my feet and - big mistake. I inhale too much heat and smoke. I instantly slam to the floor again but not of my own choice, coughing horrifically. I rip my mask off and cough so hard my throat feels as if its going through a shredder.

I gag a few times, trying not to throw up. When my lungs calm, I look up, squinting blearily into the smoke. Come on. Where would I hide if it was me?

I tug my mask back on over my face and army crawl towards the opening. It seems weird to stay so close to the floor with the capability to crawl on walls and ceilings like no one else can, but I am not stupid. Heat rises.

I wriggle out of the apartment and into the hall, shoving the burning rug aside so I can stick to the hardwood floors that - at this point - seem to have some integrity, but beads of moisture and other tarry substances are leaking from the grain. Something is melting under the floors and I can't fathom a guess as to what.

I'm drenched with sweat and a melting sensation… feels like my suit is going to go on the fritz.

"Hey Karen?" I shout. My throat hurts. "Can you turn that reconnaissance thing on? Find me room 64 and a kid inside."

"Of course."

The lenses of my mask whir into infrared mode - everything blinding in yellow in red; not a single pinpoint of blue or green to distinguish one or the other.

"I am afraid the temperature is too hot to spot the body heat of a child," Karen says apologetically. "But I have accessed building specs to find the room you're looking for - it's eight doors ahead and on your left."

"Thanks - Karen." I move forward again through the thick air, drawing myself forward on my elbows, dark orange smoke hinting at flame elsewhere. Its growing thicker.

I know I won't last much longer for breathing -

I nearly slap my head. I AM an idiot!

I send a stream of web with a squeal down the hall and into the blackness, hopefully connecting with the end of the wall. Then I smash the retraction and let the thread reel me in like a fish, dragging me at a high speed along the floor, getting thrown and tossed into the walls.

I nearly whiz right by room sixty four, cutting the line in a split second decision and smashing into the doorframe, swinging my body around and bracing myself on the opposite wall -

"Holy shit!" I shriek. "HOT HOT HOT!"

I launch my feet forward, breaking down the door of apartment sixty-four and falling inside, bringing a toxic plume of smoke and flame with me.

I struggle back to my feet and stay in a crouch, bent at the waist, maneuvering between a small bar-counter of a half-kitchen and small dining area encroaching on the entry. There's smoke but no fire yet. One look at what's lying around, and I realize that this is not a typical living situation. There's too many stains on the carpet. Too many upended toys. Cigarette butts lying haphazardly around, even on the floor.

I slip through the living room and run for the window, throwing open the sash. Smoke instantly begins to pour out like an ancient plague - but not quickly enough.

"Where are you?" I scream again, ducking and running lopsidedly into the small hallway towards two bedrooms and a bathroom. I look into the bathroom, and it's trashed with... I don't even know. Lingerie. Pill bottles. Trash bags full of things that smell sour. Urine and feces all over.

"Oh my god," I whisper in horror.  
What do you even do with this? Is there anything I can do to help?

This is not a stolen bike. Not a churro. Not a kitten in a tree.

These are REAL problems and I have no idea what to do with this.

I rush quickly into the second bedroom. There are Star Wars posters on the wall, shriveling and peeling in the heat, toy ponies and a Marvelous Barbie doll in full battle-armor. The kid has eclectic tastes. There's also dirty pieces of trash and half-eaten food items lying in various places.

"Hey!" I yell, dropping to my knees and looking under the bed. "I'm here to save you!"

Nothing.

I throw open the closet doors, nothing. I hear a crash from somewhere in the building, and something that almost could have been the roar of a large animal. The fire is spreading.

I cough harshly again on the back of my hand and rushed for the other bedroom. My eyes are streaming and stinging with the tears of smoke exposure.

I check the closet - nothing. Under the bed - nothing.

"WHERE ARE YOU?" I shout again. "I'M... I'M THE HERO COMING TO RESCUE YOU!"

Kids get scared... don't they? She must like Star Wars, she has - had - a poster.

"LIKE... LIKE A JEDI!"

I hear the scream again, but this time I realize what it was.

It's not a person. It's the hot air pushing through something small, maybe a pipe or a vent, setting off a squeal - like a tea kettle, only much worse.

Suddenly I feel a flickering at the edge of my senses. Not like fire, and not like hearing a sound, either. Almost as if a gentle hand had brushed over the tiny, microscopic hairs on the back of my neck, making me turn around, just in time to see the top of a laundry hamper shift.

...

...

* * *

...

 **Coming Up Next:**

Spider-Man is a hero to the people, people that he would never imagine running into again. New York is a big city. But it's the little interactions that sometimes have the most profound effect...


	4. Sanctuary

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* * *

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Four: Sanctuary

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* * *

...

...

Shit… there she is. She's still alive. I can do this - but I can't… I can't rush at the hamper and scare the kid, but I can't hesitate, either. But if I scare her and she runs before I grab her - I've never tested webbing a small child, but now is NOT the time for that experiment.

We're on an inner wall, so there's no window to escape from. We have to go back out into the living room. I know time is running short. My lungs are heaving just to keep them going.

"Come on," I cough, trying to sound gentle, but hacking away at the smoke-infused air probably isn't helpful either. "Come on, I'm not here to hurt you, I am here to rescue you... and take you back to your mommy..." I slowly lift the hamper lid.

The little girl inside hugs her knees, probably about five years old, long dark hair pinned back with tiny butterfly barrettes. I slowly reach inside for her.

She takes one look at the red, costumed hands, and follows them up to see my mask and massive white, lensed eyes with no pupils. I should have expected this reaction and yet it still takes me by surprise - the little girl begins to wail with sheer terror.

"Oh, no no no no no, it's okay," I withdraw my hands quickly and rip off my mask. "Look, look! I'm not scary! I'm - a kid like you! I'm just a big kid!"

She cries louder. I pull my mask back on quickly. "Look, it's just a big sock on my head! I'm wearing a sock!"

Not working. Why am I pandering to her fear? It's not going to matter if she's scared of me or not if we're both dead. Does a firefighter apologize to every rescued kid for wearing an oxygen mask that looks like a zombie video game? I doubt it.

"I will take you to your mommy!" I say firmly. "Let's go right now!"

She nods and holds up her arms. I snatch her up quickly and rush for the bed, tugging a throw-blanket off the foot and wrapping it around her.

Something makes a huge thump sound in the living room, and fresh plume of black smoke thrusts itself around the doorframe, rising up to the ceiling and billowing like a staged fog effect. The air is so acrid, my throat feels like it is screaming.

"We're just going to hide in the blanket for a moment, okay?" I say loudly. "Gotta keep that smoke out!" I tuck it around her arms and pulled a generous fold over her head. Not enough to smother her, but hopefully to prevent further inhalation.

The air turns orange and sparks are mixed with the smoke. Embers of ash and paper the size of my hand begin to waft through - the fire has finally spread through the wallpaper in the hall and into the living room. The smacking and crackling sounds echo so loudly I wish I could cover the little girl's ears and my own.

I keep my hand behind her head, pressing her face into my chest with my other arm hooked under her legs. I can't see more than just a few feet ahead of me, out of the bedroom.

I take a deep breath, as deep as I can, hold it, and rush into the darkness, crashing right through a coffee table and arriving at the window I had opened earlier.

I leap with ease onto the windowsill and slip my feet through like it's a waterslide to sit on the edge. When I'm certain my grip is secure and I won't overcompensate and fall over the edge, I jump out onto the fire escape.

The crowd below starts screaming and pointing, camera flashes going off from buildings across the street. Firemen begin to gather just beneath us, gesturing wildly.

I adjust my grip on the little girl to hold her with one arm around her waist, then held out my right arm to -

BOOM!

A massive explosion erupts behind us. Shrapnel of brick, broken glass, plaster, and hot air blast us right off the fire escape, sending us completely airborne.

Ears ringing, we plummet for the ground at deadly speed. I shoot web across the street to the upper corner of the building across the way, stopping our fall with a massive jerk to my right arm, dislocating the shoulder with horrifying popping sound.

The slack pulls taut and barrels us towards the asphalt. I try to hit the ground running so we can safely come to a stop, but the web isn't long enough. We overshoot and the force propels us in a swing towards the opposite side of the street, my shoulder wrenching so badly I let go, landing on my back with a crash, taking the brunt of impact and wrapping both arms around the little girl.

We skid momentarily, my body creating a groove in the ground, the girl still letting out muffled cries inside the blanket on my chest until we finally stop.

At first I can't even move. I struggle to sit up, gasping for air, using my good arm to disentangle myself from the little girl so that I can pull the blanket away from her face.

"You okay? You okay?" I keep repeating over, and over. "Please be okay!"

She emerges out of the blanket, shoving the folds away with unburnt arms, blinking with terror-filled eyes. I hear her mother shove her way through the crowd, screaming a name incoherently.

"You're okay!" I cry joyously, "Look at you! You're okay, see? I promised!"

Suddenly we're surrounded by firefighters and paramedics. One leans down and gently pulls the little girl out of my arms. Her mother practically body slams her and the paramedic, sobbing and touching her face, arms, hair, shouting words of comfort while trying to look for injuries. The paramedic gently coaxes them both to a stretcher and fits an oxygen mask over the little girl's mouth.

Two paramedics and two firefighters are looking down at me, unsure if they're supposed to do anything.

"Oh, hey, guys," I say hoarsely. "Long time no…" Suddenly my lungs constrict, and a blinding migraine seems to erupt without any warning in my forehead. I start coughing so hard I turn over onto my side and push up the bottom half of my mask, just enough to let my mouth show.

Can't breathe… no, CAN breathe.

Will breathe.

Breathe, Spider-Man!

It feels as if my lungs themselves are fighting over who can crawl up my throat first and deposit themselves onto the ground, never to be slaves to my beck and call again. My useless arm is curled against me, my other elbow bracing myself against the asphalt. My throat hurts so bad that I push my fingers into the asphalt, and holes begin to crack and grind beneath my fingertips as I dig into it like putty.

"You're not the guy that explodes into a green giant, right?" asks the closest firefighter. "Nod if yes!"

I shake my head vehemently and vomit nothing. Can't breathe.

"Seriously, Jeff?" one of the paramedics kneels down beside me and puts a gentle hand on my back. "Hey, uh, Spider-Man," he says kindly. "Why don't you let us check you out? Make sure you're okay."

Again, I shake my head, still coughing. Unable to stop. Breaths becoming shorter and shorter each time. Can't - breathe - can't… stop…

"Can we just - clear this area for a god damn sec?" the paramedic demands. "Hey," he says to me loudly. "Just let us get you some oxygen. Okay? Can we do that at least?"

I try to nod, but I can't. My elbow gives out beneath me, and before my head falls back onto the street, someone catches it and lowers me down. "You're going to be okay, buddy," says Jeff the firefighter. "Green rampage or not."

The other two wheel over a mobile oxygen tank and push the mouthpiece towards my face. I hold up a hand defensively. "W-wait," I try to say.

"You don't have to tell us who you are," says the paramedic. "But... at least let us uncover your nose a little bit so we can fit this on. Better knowing what Spider-Man's real chin looks like than having a dead Spider-Man on the street. Agree?"

I can't answer. Breathe.

"We see the less-important half your face or you could die," the paramedic says firmly, but still kindly. "Not a hard choice, kid. Let me do my job."

Agreed. "O-kay," I gasp quickly between my hyperventilating. "Okay!"

I let the paramedic fit the mask over the lower half of my face, and make sure the strap is secure in the back despite being stretched over the extra layer.

"Take deep breaths for me?" the paramedic leans in close as if he is trying to listen. "Can you let me help you into a stretcher?" he asks. "Or... do you ninja us to pieces like the other red dude?"

Black dots swim in the corners of my vision, encroaching further and further into the view of the building on fire and the yellow firemen hats appearing and disappearing around the corners of their trucks.

Sensory overload turns into sensory deprivation. The sounds of hoses, water, reporters and onlookers shouting on the other side of a police barrier begin to fade in and out, replaced with a high-pitched ringing.

Jeff makes a scoffing sound. "And you gave me a bad time for asking him if he was going to Hulk out? Come on."

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe...

I feel the static closing in as I pass out.

…

Where am I?

I'm on a stretcher, loaded into the back of an open ambulance. I look around blearily, trying to gather my bearings. The shadows are different - I don't know how long it took me to find the kid, maybe a few minutes. The sun sets early this time of year. I can hardly tell what time it is… how long I've been here. But not in a hospital…

I notice the same paramedic sitting by, hands folded carefully, waiting for me to wake up.

"How're you feeling, kid?" he asks.

"I'm okay," I reply, my voice heavily muffled by the oxygen mask. "Can I… can you help me take this off?"

"Sure thing," the paramedic stands up and moves to my side, tugging on the edge of my Spider-Man mask to keep it from slipping off when he pulls the oxygen mask off the top of my head. He tucks it aside and sits back down, staring at me with furrowed eyebrows and a cross look of concern.

"How long was I out?" I whisper, my throat still hurting.

"About four minutes," He sighs. "I was afraid if I took you into the ER they wouldn't give a crap about your costume and we'd have a big disaster on our hands. I hope that's okay that I waited till you woke up."

"Yeah yeah yeah," I reply hoarsely. "It's fine." I feel the top of my face and the back of my head. Horrifically tender, but… I am overwhelmed with relief that my Spider-Man mask is still on - albeit only covering me from the nose up. But it's better than nothing - as long as I haven't totally blown this, I can still do what I do.

"You have another concussion," Karen's voice says, sounding concerned. If an AI can be worried. "Maybe you should tell him that you've had a concussion recently. This could have lasting consequences."

I ignore Karen and wriggle my feet, feeling pain in the soles. It feel like my suit melted a little bit. It still feels too hot.

"Thanks," I say quickly, but sincerely. "I should... go."

"You don't want to rest here a little longer?"

"No, I'm... I'm good." I try to sit up. He thrusts an arm behind me quickly and helps me up the rest of the way. "I'm more than okay," I say. My voice cracks, raspy with smoke.

"Why don't you let me pop that shoulder back in for you?" He asks. "Before you run off."

I look down at my arm, uselessly sitting in my lap, the shoulder throbbing like a nuclear heartbeat.

My powers have usually kept me from needing treatment, I've only ever needed extra time. A small readout on my injury from Karen appears on the inside of my lenses, even without me asking for it. I guess she probably knows it'd be weird to start talking to my AI in front of a stranger when no one knows she's there.

I put my working hand against my upper arm and give it a slight push.

There's a sudden snapping sound, and the shoulder pops back into place with a pained gasp from me. "Ow," I moan.

"Holy shit," the paramedic exclaims.

I groan again and move my shoulder around, testing the workability. "It's fine, it's fine, it's fine," I say quickly. "It just… needed... some help."

"That shouldn't have worked," he replies, "That's the wrong way to do it..."

Technically, this happens all on its own all the time. I just needed to get it in the right place. But I can't explain the healing powers now… not here, not to a stranger, even someone like this.

I need get myself out of the situation quickly. How do I not know someone won't recognize my voice? Or maybe someone ripped my mask off while I was unconscious? Hell, maybe this guy already did! Maybe he snapped a picture of me with his cellphone!

"I've got to go," I say in a panic. "I've got to leave. Sorry."

I throw my legs off the side of the stretcher and stand, wobbling a little in place. I can feel tiny cuts and bruises all over my body from the explosion, but even if they looked like anyone else's minor injuries, they certainly did not feel so. They were annoyances more than obstacles, and they'd be gone by tomorrow.

"At least tell me this," says the paramedic, "If I let you go now, will you just... go do what heroes do? Some special healing powers activate and then you go save more people?" He holds up a stern finger. "OR... do you leave this ambulance, walk a block away, and then collapse from smoke inhalation and an internal injury I didn't realize was there because I didn't examine you, like, AT ALL... and then you die on my watch?"

He awkwardly puts his hand down, as if suddenly realizing he sounds like a stern dad. "Cuz I can't let that happen to you. Not a good kid like yourself."

"No, no, not at all," I say hastily, shuffling awkwardly and stepping over equipment to get to the doors. "I mean... option one. Yeah. That's a good option. I leave here, and I save more people... nothing bad happens to me. I promise."

I bring the edge of the mask back down to my neck where it belongs, hiding nose, mouth, and chin. No chances.

"That's what I am here for!" I say, cheerfully, jumping gracefully down to the asphalt. "Rescuing people and..."

A pair of arms are suddenly thrown around me in an embrace. "Oh, oh, uh," I exclaim, nearly knocked over by this person's exuberance. It's the mom of the little girl that I just rescued.

Her blond hair blocks the eye pieces of my mask long enough for Karen to offer reconnaissance mode. I ignore her.

"Thank you thank you thank you," she sobs, over and over again. "Thank you for saving my baby."

I appreciate her thanks, but there's a part of me thinking of the condition of the apartment and signs of drug use. What exactly is the little girl going back to?

"You're welcome," I say. "It's - it's my pleasure, really!" I pat her back kindly and then step back. "I'm sorry about your apartment, though."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't be sorry. It's not my apartment. Belongs to my ex." She brightens. "Now she'll have to stay with me - and no one can say otherwise. No matter how many times he pretends he's sober and normal. If he doesn't have a stable living environment, he can't keep her. That's the deal."

Relief floods me from head to toe. I feel joyful, even, on her behalf. "That's great!" I exclaim, maybe a little too loudly. What are you SUPPOSED to say? Sorry your ex does drugs?

"Well," I recover, "I... got to go. I'm sure there's a cat in a tree somewhere."

"Very funny," she replies. "Hey - before you go, kid... I mean, Spider-Man. I've got to say something to you."

I'm about to shoot web up to the buildings across the street for a quick getaway, but something in her tone gives me pause.

"I was coming to pick her up and the building was already on fire, and the firemen obviously wouldn't let me go up and get her myself," she explains. "They had prioritized different areas of the building to evacuate…" Her eyes fill with tears, and she touches my arm. "It may already have been too late for her." She withdraws her hand, shoving it awkwardly against her jeans with no pockets to hide in. Her hands are both shaking badly. "You really are a hero," she says. "Without my daughter, I'm nothing. She is my life. I don't care if you're an Avengers mascot or a kid with a death wish, you're a hero. She's back with me. And away from him."

She knows I had to have noticed the state of the apartment. "If you need anything," she says, "I'm living in Morris Park with my parents right now. Okay? Ask anyone, they all know the Matthews. They'll point you in the right direction... in case you ever need somewhere to go."

I open my mouth and close it again. I'm stunned… touched, even, by such an offer of generosity. Of sanctuary. From a stranger.

I've never thought of needing anywhere, with Aunt May always being my home, and now with the Avengers facility lingering as a future possibility. I was too young when my parents died to remember where we lived before I went to live with Aunt May and Uncle Ben.

I can't imagine a world without Aunt May always being that sanctuary - but - I am still warmed by the offer of a stranger out of gratitude.

"Thank you," I reply with warm sincerity. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do," she steps back, giving me permission to leave. "Goodbye."

"Bye," I give her an awkward little wave. I press my middle fingers to my palm and the web zings out to the upper left corner of the apartments across the street. I hit retraction and let it reel me up speedily, away from surface level and curious onlookers. Cell phone flashes go off, people point and shout after me.

I ignore an ache in my throat, and heart, as I leave the scene.

The paramedic waves goodbye.

...

...

* * *

...

 **Coming Up Next:**

Peter doesn't make it home from the fire.


	5. The Monster That Follows

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Five: The Monster That Follows

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* * *

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...

I cross the Queensboro bridge over Roosevelt island on my way home.

There's a nice view of Manhattan from the far side, and I take a moment to pause and look back. The apartment fire smoke up in the northeast (a little bit inland) is still billowing into the horizon - a plume of orange and purple against a darkening blue sky. It's almost pretty. But I am relieved to be out of it. I think I'll actually let Aunt May make me that cup of tea she's always threatening me with.

I leave the busy traffic of the bridge, turning south west for stealthier alleys and medium-height buildings. Quieter corners of the city where the business close at 7 and pull heavy, dark metal folding doors or bars over their storefronts to protect from thieves, riots, or collateral damage from nearby battles of hero versus criminal.

On the street, a pair of slow headlights move quietly along.

I free fall down to the side of a brick wall, whizzing forward at breakneck speed, pausing as the sound of web sticks to a higher surface and cuts short the descent. I've paused in a dark alley, about twelve feet from the ground.

There's a homeless guy curled up at the base of a drainpipe. When detach from the web and stick the landing with a huff, I accidentally wake him up.

He startles and holds a small knife out in front of him.

"Who's that?" he gasps, his voice gnarly with a long life of smoke damage. After only a few short minutes of it, I can't imagine a lifetime of exposure on purpose.

"What'dya want? I got nothing!"

"Easy," I say, "Not here to hurt you. Just taking a shortcut."

Shadows and headlights pass us by. My spidery senses don't have anything on this man. He's probably tired, hungry, and from the looks of it, dealing with a lifetime struggle of addictions.

"Then leave an old man to his sleep," he barks back. "You don't take shortcuts through here unless you aim to be robbed." He notices my mask, eyes widening. "Even if you are a Mexican wrestler," he adds. "You hear me, kid?"

"I hear you." I grasp the wall again with my hands and climb up the corner of the building, slipping around to the other side. Once I reach the second story, I look up. Some of the apartment buildings in this sector are much shorter. All brick, all apartments, very low income, four stories at the most. A whole block of them.

I notice the slight whine of old car brakes being applied. A car door opens below, and I look down out of pure curiosity.

"Can I give you a lift?" calls a friendly voice.

"Wait, what?" I ask, surprised I'm even being addressed at all.

Suddenly there's a strange squeal, and something in his hands glows brightly -

My spider sense clamors like an alarm -

a huge white light erupts -

BANG!

There's a splatter - blood - my blood - against the brick wall, my grip loosens,

I'm falling -

CRASH

I crumple against the balcony, gasping with pain, scrambling to my hands and knees to recover, pulling myself up and over the edge to get up to the roofline -

And then another, white light, squeal,

BANG!

I fall off the balcony, plummeting to the sidewalk, where I land, broken cement slamming hard against my body - I've lost my breath -

He has one of Toomes's weapons.

Even down on the sidewalk, body shaking from the impact, my limbs struggle to regain control. Turning up and over, kneeling, beginning to stand -

Another squeal, and bang. This time blood explodes on the sidewalk beneath me. My headspace completely steps out of body, screaming in a high-pitched ringing, dots swimming in my vision.

I'm about to pass out, I think logically. Don't hit your head, Spider-Man!

I try to stand, but unconsciousness keeps trying to take over. I fall over to the ground again, one hand pressed behind my head, the glove coming away with blood.

head...

wound...

"Karen?" I whisper - no answer, a fizzle. The white light.

Something electromagnetic has knocked out my AI.

I'm alone.

And I'm dizzy - I can't see who shot me - I see the headlights, still, blaring at me. Enveloping me in a white light.

The sensory overload is too much.

I catch a glimpse of an NYPD uniform; briefly, in my vision, swimming back and forth between the lights and the darkness.

I'm okay, I think. "Help, sir, please," I whisper. "I've - I've been hurt. I need help."

The man bends down over me. "I said I'd give you a lift," he says. "Shoulda listened."

He's wearing some tactical gear, his face passive. His hand reached down and pushes against the wound

I didn't realize

on my chest

that's where the blood is coming from...

My breath hitches and my whole body goes rigid - prepared to fight no matter what the cost -

A familiar squeal fills the air, and the white light hits me again. The gun's end opens up sort of claw-shaped mechanism, and two small U-shaped pieces come flying out. Each one slams against each wrist, locking around my web shooters and squeezing -

I feel each web shooter SNAP... and crush, the metal breaking.

And then the bones beneath

them

break

first, snap. Second, snap. Not a snap, like a sound, a deeper snap, the absolute horror of the sensation fills me up like water -

I'm screaming - Shit shit shit shit - "Karen?!"

In a burst of energy and adrenaline, I am scrambling to my feet - too quickly.

The feeling of a balloon escaping my head lifts up, and over, closing shut above my head and encasing me in darkness,

I fall again. This time I stay.

I'm alone

I'm alone

alone

...

My body is dragged to the car. Lifted into the backseat. Legs secured at the ankles by the same kind of technological cuff. Wrists already useless. Head freely bleeding onto the... plastic tarps... laying across the seats.

Clean up crew.

Horror shudders through me. He's going to kill me.

He drives - muttering to himself - talking to himself. No, a headset.

"You can tell the big man I got him. I'll do what needs to be done."

A reply.

"What, you think I don't know what Fisk's old crew is capable of? I've heard the stories!"

Another beat.

"I know he's in prison. Idiot."

Pause.

"Look, it's different when these so-called Avengers are looking at the big picture. Alien invasions and shit."

Beat.

"Yeah yeah yeah, but then - THEN - you get these whack jobs interfering with solid police work AND the..."

A response, interrupting.

"Oh and now there's another one? Great. Great. Just what I wanted to hear tonight when I got one of their own. Thanks for telling me, asshole."

I don't know what he means by one of their own. Someone else like me was out there stopping crime on the street level? They must be a lot better at being subtle than the rest... I don't know what he's talking about.

"What," he continues, "Don't you think Toomes operation was valuable to us? Now if I can't manage it I'd like to see one of you idiots give it a try with one of the bigger players. Why don't you take the devil."

I had heard of some kind of crime splurge in Hell's Kitchen hampered by someone they called the Devil but I thought it was meant in a metaphorical sense. I never actually read anything much about it. But after the paramedic mentioned him… and now this man... it sounds like a real person now.

"I have my orders," he says, "You have yours. Let's continue to have a good working relationship."

Suddenly his teeth grind and his lips curl -

"If you hurt them," he snarls, saliva flying from his mouth, eyes almost immediately turning blood shot with unparalleled rage - "If you hurt them, the whole operation goes. I swear to you. Every single underling that isn't imprisoned will be outed - I'll send the fucking Avengers after you personally. I got connections, you asshole. Got it?"

He calms.

"Good, then we understand each other. You tell 'em I'll see 'em tomorrow, just as planned. Once I've - cleaned up a little bit." A shrug. "I got a few toys leftover from Toomes. Got one of the last batches before he went under. You'll have to reach out for some other contacts. Hell, I'll sell you mine when I'm through. Okay? Yeah - all right, brother. Tomorrow."

I groan, everything hurts so bad - broken wrists - blood soaking through the suit, lacerations on the chest, the back of my head.

"P-please," I whisper.

"P-p-p-please," the man mocks, a pair of narrowed eyes looking at me briefly in the rearview mirror. "Pretty please, he says. Fuck that." He jerks the wheel over, and we've pulled into an alleyway. The brake squeals a little when we stop.

I try to sit up, but he's already opening the back door, in his hands, some sort of contraption that looks almost like gauntlet, but instead of hand-shaped armor, a circular end. Round, large, humming with electromagnetic energy. There's a hum of power, and the cuffs around my wrists suddenly jerk outward, sticking to the magnetic end. I cry out with the impact and strain of the broken wrists being jerked out of place.

He uses the magnetic gauntlet to drag me out of the car, my wrists drawn up and over my head. My body thumps against old pavement. I feel every bump and piece of trash on the ground, from the car to the door in the side of the building, opened to reveal darkness.

"Help," I say again, helplessly, struggling to break free of the wrist holds. Nothing - no strength - he was prepared for me. He knew my weak points - how to keep me from moving.

Then everything goes black, my body hits the top of a flight of cement stairs. Twelve steps down, hitting each one, crying aloud with growing alarm.

"SHUT UP, or it'll be the worse for you," the man shouts at me.

I don't listen - I'll regret it later. I know I will.

I scream again. "HELP! PLEASE! SOMEBODY!"

He grabs a handful of my hair damp with blood from the head wound - gives it a yank - my scream shrinks into a whimper.

"That's better," he says.

We're in a garage. One of those old parking garages, the ceiling too low for anything but really old sedans. It's abandoned, but at the bottom of the stairs there's a sort workstation set up - two huge pieces of machinery, like vices, meant for holding huge construction projects in place - boats, skyscrapers, arc reactors. Anything that would need to clamp something stronger than itself -

like me -

I struggle again, but he wrenches my arms away from the gauntlet, one cuff in each vice, slamming a handle until they both close on each arm. I'd be standing at this point if I could keep my legs from buckling, but I can't, I can't, I can't...

I hang there, arms straining at being held at such an awful angle - one shoulder slowly dislocates. It pops out and sends shrieking, agonizing pain through my whole side. I scream again from the extreme, white-hot pain throbbing -

Unconscious, silence.

My silence.

He waits.

"HEY!" a gruff voice, threatening. SPLASH.

The shock of waking from cold water hits me full force. I'm hacking and coughing and...

I blink and look around.

What's happening...

Where am I?

Who is this?

What time is it?

It's… tuesday evening… or night...

and dark.

I'm hacking and spluttering. "Agh," I cough, gagging twice. Water dribbles down my hair, face, out of my mouth. It soaked right through the mask. I drool helplessly, unable to wipe my face, blinking, the lenses making a slight fizzing sound.

"Wake up, Spider-Man."

"I'm awake," I whisper hoarsely, blinking and trying to gauge my surroundings. Oh, god, where am I? I remember...

Nothing much.

I was on my way home - then there was a huge migraine, and a memory lapse. There's darkness. It's so dark.

My head droops...

"I'm talking to you. Wake UP," the man slaps me in the face. My head snaps one direction, causing the relentless pain in my shoulders to increase. Both dislocated. Now both pull with unbearable agony.

There's an acrid, sensation in my mouth. It burns.

My eyes fight through the squint of stinging flesh to look up at the man standing in front of me.

I'm definitely awake now, lifting my head, suddenly angry at the entire situation. Ready to defend myself - to the death if necessary. I'm seething. Cornered like an animal and no way out that I can see... yet.

"There you are. Good evening, Spider-Man. Welcome to consciousness. This will likely be the first of several times we wake you up like this. How was it? Bucket of water in the face okay? Should I just stick with the slap next time?" A face leers into mine. "I'm new at this, but I drew a short straw."

I give him a once over. I've never seen this man before. The badge I saw briefly before is now tucked away in a pocket. He's still wearing some sort of vest - bullet proof, maybe. Slacks and shoes. Disheveled blondish hair, slicked back. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one you would take a second glance at on the street and think ooh, what a creepy guy!

He looks totally... normal.

"Who..." I whisper. "Who... are... you?"

"We've met before. Remember? I gave you a lift. Involuntarily."

I bend my head and look down, quietly trying to breathe. I don't remember getting a lift from anyone. I think… I think he's just being sarcastic in a cruel way. Somehow abducting me and throwing me in the back of his car is his version of getting a lift.

Yes - my memory struggles to piece it together - but I'm fairly certain that's what happened. I wouldn't have gotten in a car with anyone, not when I can web home.

"I don't..." I can barely breathe. "I... I don't."

"That'll happen sometimes - a gap. It'll come to you momentarily. Or maybe never?! I don't know. Either way - it's you and me now. And we need to have a chat."

...

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* * *

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 **Coming Up Next:**

Peter's abductor has some aggressive interrogation techniques. But Spider-Man does not have the answers he wants.


	6. Nightmare

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Please consider this PSA a graphic violent content warning!

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Six: Nightmare

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I don't answer. I can't.

"I've never been the type of guy to hurt people," he says, "But then again, I am really not opposed to sticking a bug with a pin. It's for science."

"I'm not scared of you," I lie hoarsely. I can smell smoke - taste it in my mouth. Blood and smoke on my tongue and between my teeth.

But I am. I am more scared than I have ever been in my life. More scared than when the building dropped down on top of me. More scared than the night he… when he… died.

Maybe I'll see Uncle Ben sooner than I thought.

I'm not scared of pain, necessarily - scared this will be the last time I feel anything at all. I don't want to die.

"I am not scared," I lie again, my voice catching.

He picks up a knife, the handle made of iridescent pearl. "We'll see."

He presses the blade tip just under the seam of my mask. No no no no...

He uses it to peel it up, then pulls the rest of it off.

I'm exposed - he is looking at my face. He bends down and looks at my face with an expression of pure excitement, which swiftly fades into confusion and disappointment. Then he begins to laugh hysterically.

"I thought - I thought I'd know you." He slaps his forehead. "I've been watching too many movies. I seriously thought there was going to be this big AHA moment! The big reveal! Pull the mask off and see the bug underneath! But - but you're literally a nobody?!" He bends down and looks at me again. "I've never seen you before. I half expected you to be some playboy gracing the covers of the tabloids, you know, boy-band singer by day, masked vigilante at night. Someone I'd recognize." He drops my mask on the floor and steps on it, grinding his heel back and forth until he can hear the mechanisms crunch and the lenses shatter.

"The electromagnetic damage wears off after awhile," he admits with a shrug. "Can't take any chances with whatever hardware you've got hiding around."

Poor Karen, I think, hazily. But if the effect of the white blast wears off... maybe I can still connect with her... and...

He grasps my chin with his fingers and moves my face from side to side. "My god. You're literally a nobody. A young nobody. A kid amongst thousands. Jesus Christ. This is fucking hilarious."

I jerk my chin out of his hands, the pain wrenching through my arms as I do so. I look away, my lip quivering, trying very hard not to cry.

"I'm not fundamentally opposed to hurting older kids, you see," he explains, as if it's supposed to make me feel better. "It's the job." He uses the fist balled around the knife to suddenly jab at my injured shoulders, knuckles pushing at the exact places in the most agony.

I'm in too much pain to even scream, a hoarse sort of yell bubbles up out of my mouth and my body twitches, aching to escape, spider-sense blaring all over the place, the sensory overload of DANGER DANGER DANGER...

"Okay, okay, okay, okay..." I repeat coarsely, my mouth dry. "What do you want?"

"I need to find out what makes you tick, is all." He flips the knife casually in his hand, the blade glinting. "Ask you a few questions."

Silence falls between us. He seems to be considering something, looking down at the knife in his hand. He seems… confused about something.

"I won't - I can't," I bleat uncontrollably. "I don't care what you do to me. I won't answer any questions."

He pulls up my sleeve.

"But, but, but," I try, my humor rising out of me like an unwelcome balloon. "D-d-depends on the questions?"

I can do nothing but flinch when he scrapes the sharpened blade across my forearm, watching with dissatisfied interest when the skin opens up like normal skin does. My arm starts bleeding profusely.

I twitch slightly, biting back the word ow, trying not to show weakness. It's hurts - but not as bad as my chest and shoulders already do. Which hurt even less than they did thirty seconds ago. I find myself praying earnestly in my head that my overly speedy healing works faster than his knife. Maybe - maybe I survive this after all. Or maybe he tortures me forever because it never seems to get worse.

"Huh," he says, "Interesting."

"You didn't ask me any questions," I spit out, furrowing my eyebrows. "I don't think you know how this whole aggressive interrogation thing works!"

He looks up at me with surprise. "Oh, shit," he says apologetically, "You probably think I am some sort of psycho, don't you? God, what this must look like. Ugh. I am sorry. It's not supposed to be that way. I just needed to check. There's a lot of people out there who are interested in what makes you spin."

"Psycho or not... That's... not... how... you're supposed to torture," I snark angrily. "At least give me a chance to tell you that I WON'T give you an answer!"

He lowers his chin, giving me an expression as if I'm trying to talk myself out of a speeding ticket. Which I would never do. Considering I failed my driver's test a few weeks ago. How was I supposed to know that you weren't allowed to use the AI for parallel parking?

"It's... weird," I finish lamely.

Maybe I'll never get to retake it…

"Careful what you wish for," he replies in a sing-song voice.

Shit. You're an idiot, Spider-Man.

He walks back to his work station, fiddling around with something in a tool box, doesn't find what he's looking for. Wipes my blood off the blade on his pant leg.

He looks as if he is deep in thought.

"H-hey," I say, inappropriately chipper. "Wh-what do y-y-ou plan on doing with that th-th-thing now that it's all clean? Got what you needed - right? Time to celebrate? Cut a cake?"

"Cut a spider," he responds flatly, not taking my humor too well.

Truth is, I'm not taking it so well either. My brain is screaming.

What the actual hell, dude? Shut up. He's about to kill you. Don't make him mad!

"Anything you'd like to tell me?" he asks, in a pleasant voice. "You know, what's about to happen next doesn't necessarily have to happen."

"Tell you?" I repeat, parrot like.

"Yeah... like... your name."

My insides seem to shrink inside me. Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

I shake my head, suddenly swallowing an onslaught of tears. A whimper escapes my lips.

"No," I whisper.

"You sure?" he flips the knife a few times in his hand.

"Yes," I say, my voice shaking. Am I being brave right now? Or being an idiot?

"You're sure you've got nothing to say?" he asks again. "You positive?"

"I'm actually feeling a little negative," I reply too fast to think it through. I bite my lip to keep myself from spontaneously smiling like an idiot and look away.

Seriously, Spider-Man, shut the hell up. Unless you want that quote on your headstone.

HERE LIES SPIDER MAN...

FEELING A LITTLE NEGATIVE!

The officer paces in front of me, once to the left, and then to the right, not taking his eyes off me the whole time. It's uncomfortable.

"All right, so, Spider-Guy has a sense of humor. Not helpful." His smirk disappears and is replaced by a horrible expression. He leans down into my face again.

"Your name," he repeats.

"Yours first," I snap.

He shrugs. "Unless your fancy suit can take pictures of my face, then you know I'm just going to disappear. I'm a shadow."

DO I have pictures of his face? Wouldn't the baby monitor program quit after the magnet blast? Unless it can still record because the force effects the wiring for connectivity to the servers - internet and stuff - but not the data stream? Isn't it technically a camera, and doesn't function the same way as an AI that needs access to the cloud?

"You don't get the benefit of my name," the man says.

If Karen's not connected how can I expect the video feed to work? There's nothing there.

I'm done. Let's do this, asshole.

"Well, then," I reply sarcastically, "Likewise, Officer."

"Fine," he says. "We'll do it the hard way then." He looks down at the knife, and then suddenly slashes at my chest, a crisscross motion. Some pieces of the torn suit falls away at the slashed edges, tiny little wires all feeding into the crazy programs making staticky, popping noises. The sleeves and neck are still mostly in place. My abdomen is already sticky with blood from the lacerations caused from getting shot by the blast of energy the first time, now freshly bleeding again with the knife cuts.

I grit my teeth and try not to make a sound, but a moan escapes. I inhale quickly with the pain, grimacing and squeezing my eyes shut.

Don't think about it. Think about anything else. The Avengers. Happy. Liz. Michelle. School. Aunt May. Ned. Ned's death star. Star Wars. Heroes. Han Solo. Han Solo gets tortured by Darth Vader and Boba Fett. Maybe it felt like this. This hurts... a lot. Ouch ouch ouch...

"Ow," it practically falls out of me, in a tight voice. "Shit."

"Yeah, yeah, shit is right," he responds. "There's a whole lot of shit for you if you don't gimme something."

I only stare at the knife. I don't answer. I bite my lip and try to turn my head. I can feel the pains in my shoulders lessen. Even still pulled at the wrong angle, the accelerated speed of healing is trying to kick in. I no longer feel as if the muscles in my chest and shoulders will cause me to suffocate. They're still dislocated... I think. I don't know that I'd notice if they move back into place, if it's only one small reprieve and I'm too busy feeling horrible somewhere else. I'm trying to hold myself up now, but if I were to relax my knees, I know they'd restrain.

"So what the hell is your deal?" the man asks. "I just flayed open your chest like a frog dissection in biology class and you start meditating?" He walks around the the back towards the stairs, looking at the back of my head. I feel his hand start looking through my hair like a concerned mother-figure on the first day of kindergarten looking for lice. "Where the fuck is that nice little headwound you had back here?" he asks.

"I w-w-ould shrug," I respond, "But I'm a little tied up right now."

"All right, you little asshole," the man walks back around and faces me. "So - what - you've got like a Devil thing going on?"

"Devil?" I ask blearily.

"You know, the Devil. Of Hell's Kitchen."

"I don't know who that is."

"Well, he never seems to die, for one thing. I myself have taken a shot at him once or twice. Thought I hit him, too. There's a few of us who know we've injured him in one way or another and he just keeps crawling back. What is it with you boys in tight red costumes?"

I don't answer. Don't be sarcastic, it makes things worse.

"Maybe because the boys in blue just aren't very trustworthy right now," I respond. "We have to set ourselves apart from people like you."

If I could kick myself in the face at this point, I probably would.

"Ha... ha. Yeah. I'll give you that one. Okay! Next!" he kneels down and with a grunt of force, drives the knife down into the bridge of my foot.

...

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* * *

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 **Coming Up Next:**

the traumatic hell continues...


	7. Escalating Behaviors

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Please consider this a PSA for (continued) graphic violent content warning!

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Seven: Escalating Behaviors

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There's a delayed reaction on my part; my body reacts with a sort of flail, and at first I don't feel any pain. Then the sharp burning begins, and the shock begins to set in. My ears begin to ring and my brain goes sort of fuzzy. I shake my head back and forth, and I'm letting out an incoherent shout of agony.

He yanks the knife back up and looks at me again. "Let's just see how long this takes to heal, huh?" he says. "On a scale of one to ten, does that - hurt you as much as it hurts anyone else?"

I can't answer, every breath heaves like a growl, every exhale a groan.

My head is starting to feel heavy, and my equilibrium is starting to shift balance. I'm almost too aware of it to be dizzy; but I know it's coming.

"What do you think?" I finally manage in response.

The room is beginning to rock back and forth.

"I'm sure it'd be interesting to my friends if they knew just how much you can stand before you turn out like a little light," he replies casually, bending down and looking at my bleeding foot. "Toomes's weapons had a seriously lackluster effect on you. That was the most temporary response I've ever seen."

"So sorry to disappoint," I growl. "Maybe Toomes wasn't - as good - as he thought he was." I shake my head slightly, trying to clear the fog. My words are jumbling over each other.

The man stands, calculating.

"So now I have a few knife injuries to watch," he says cruelly, "Why don't we try a broken bone?"

I wag my head back and forth again. He doesn't seem to realize that the metal cuffs already broke both wrists, and that both were already quickly on the mend. I don't want to point it out.

"P-p-please, don't do this. I just... I'm..." my hearing is really off at this point, pressure coming in and out like something in dubstep. "I j-ju-just w-w-want to go h-h-h-ome."

"Where might that be?" he asks.

My head droops, too heavy to lift any longer.

He grabs where my hand is sticking out of the edge of the vice and yanks on my pinky finger, and with a snap, it breaks. The pain shoots up my hand, arm, like a white alarm system clanging loudly in my brain. I can't shut it off, and I can't focus outside of it. The spidey-sense at this point is working so overtime that it sounds as if there's a whole crowd of white noise screaming indecipherable things at me, flashing on and off, flickering hot with lightening.

I'm overwhelmed by it.

"S-stop," I moan. "S-stop. Please. Don't."

"Or what?"

I try to scream but it just comes out in a hoarse croak. It's just so... gross at this point. He's not going to stop. I'm going to die. It's as simple as that.

"Come on, stop me. With words." He reaches for my middle finger. "Anything will do."

"I don't... know... what..."

"So you won't tell me your name yet? Why not start with something a little smaller? What are the Avengers up to nowadays?"

"I think some of them are in p-p-prison," I blab, not even knowing if its accurate, and completely not caring. "They're awol. I don't know. I can't tell you what I don't know."

"What about Mr. Stark? What is he up to?"

"I don't know!"

"Seems like you've been pretty cozy lately. I heard about the ferry."

"But that doesn't mean I know what he's doing! He does his own thing!"

"Like communicate with you regularly?"

"No, actually, not really! Not enough!"

"Where is he staying? The top secret Avengers facility? Stark Tower that no longer has his name on the side? Back to LA?"

"I DON'T KNOW WHERE IRON MAN IS," I shout.

All I know is that he isn't here.

"But you've been to the Avengers complex."

"I- I don't - know..."

"Wrong answer. Yes or no. If you were better at lying you'd be able to just say NO."

I shake my head again, trying to somehow gather my bearings. The rapid fire questions are almost setting of my spider-sense as much as a blade, a bullet, or flying shrapnel. I can feel my body trying to give in to the shock and pass out. My heart is beating rapidly, my blood pressure dropping. My skin feels clammy. The bleeding from my chest is slowing and becoming dry. I feel chills racing up and down my spine. Only the knife injury in my foot and my fingers are on fire and slowly burning me alive.

My head falls to my chest and my whole body shudders. My vision blinks and begins to grow dark at the edges like a vintage photograph.

I've always liked photography, I think blearily. If I ever get out of this. I should try it. I will try it.

"Don't pass out on me yet," the officer urges. "We ain't done here."

I try to say something snarky, and all that comes out are slurred words. "Lehk I canna jest deci...tha..."

"Here," he says, "Something for the road." He breaks my middle finger and I'm

Out

like a light.

SPLASH.

I cough and my head jerks up. Water dribbles into my eyes, my mouth. I swallow as much of the water that I can. I am so dehydrated, and my throat still feels raw with smoke.

But I'm gagging, too, unable to… to.. To focus…

"You left me for a moment," the man shouts in my face. "Come back, come back. More to discuss."

I let out a shout of anguish. Everything hurts.

"We'll table our last topic. Coming back full circle for a moment. I want your name, now."

My body hurts so badly that I can't think straight.

"What's your name? Tell me your name."

My biggest mistake is not telling him no. I can't snark at him like I did before. The fight is gone. If I can manage just one, sarcastic little NO, I might be able to hold out. But I don't allow myself to think that far. I can't say it.

Which by default, it's somehow admitting to myself that I won't be able to keep my secret after all. Preemptive failure.

He presses the knife blade against my cheek, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make panic flare up, spider-senses going off like strobe lights, so bright and confusing I can't concentrate. He slides it up my face and presses it into the corner of my eye, and slowly begins to press it in.

"No, no, no," I try to struggle, feeling the re-strain of my shoulders from too much movement. Shit.

Shit

Shit

He can't - if he cuts out my eyes...

I'm pretty damn sure my super-healing would not regrow eyes.

"You don't need an eye, do you?" he growls. "What happens if you lose them both? Think a blind guy can do the shit you do? The answer is definitely no."

I can't do this anymore.

"What happens if I shove this into your brain?" He says. My eyes are squeezed shut and I am still struggling, somehow, to try and pull my face away - but he's relentless - he presses harder. It's starting to hurt. I didn't think he'd break my fingers - but he did.

What makes me think he'd stop at gouging out my eye and plunging this into my head?

"What happens, huh?" He screams at me - pressing harder.

I die, I think. My moment of shame, of cowardice. I'd rather give up my real name than die. And it's not just my name, it's Aunt May's name. And I fail her... here and now.

"Peter," I whisper, my voice so hoarse it barely comes out.

"Peter WHAT?"

"P-parker. Parker. Peter Parker."

He drops my chin back to my chest and releases the pressure of the blade. I heave slightly, and then puke on the cement floor. It splatters against his shoes and he lets out a yelp of surprise. He makes a disgusted face in my direction and tries to rub his shoe at an awkward angle on the ground to wipe it off.

"Great," he says sarcastically. "Spandex heroes blowing chunks and a name that I could've picked out of the top ten baby names of every decade. You might as well be John Smith." He pauses and laughs suddenly. "You'll at least be a John Doe. Maybe. Unless I get what I need."

My brain flickers in a tiny, blissful echo of hope.

Maybe?

MAYBE?

Unless what, though? Didn't he need my name?

"Let's try this, Mr. Parker," he puts his knife away. Begins to roll up his sleeves.

"T-t-try what?" I ask, disgusted at the way he says Mr. Parker. It sounds violating - wrong - that's my Uncle's name. That's my father's name. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Don't you dare say it. I'll kill you. I swear…

He winds up and punches me hard in the face. Then he punches from both sides, left then right, my head snapping from side to side. The heat of bruising begins to throb, my head spinning with dizziness. Definitely a concussion at this point.

The guy packs a swift, and deadly punch. He could have been a boxer. He could have been...

I've already been through too much at this point, and I'd barely woken up to begin with. He delivers one final blow.

My head snaps back at the neck, fresh blood pouring from both nostrils and the bridge of my nose swiftly turning dark red with bruising. Broken nose.

The pain is so intense that it shatters everything. My vision, the room - it all disappears.

In my unconsciousness, I think I'm home from school. Aunt May looks up at me in surprise. "What happened to you?" she asks. "You look terrible!"

"May…" I whisper. "Help me. Please. May. May," I repeat it, in a panic, over and over. "May - May - please - May… help me - help me..."

She can't hear me. She fades as quickly as she had appeared.

"Sorry, were you dreaming?" says my kidnapper. Maybe my future murderer. I don't know. I'm afraid of how long I will have to wait before I find out. "Didn't mean to startle you. Wakey wakey. Eggs and Spidey."

I cough and spit out phlegm, dark against the cement. So, not phlegm. Blood.

"No one is coming for you," he says.

"I didn't say anyone was coming for me," I reply quietly. "No one knows where I am. I'm all yours." My voice sounds as if I have a bad, bad cold. The throbbing is unbearable in my cheekbones, forehead, nose, eyes.

"Mine? Yikes, slow down. I don't want to keep you. I just want to check a few things and then... turn ya loose."

My heart pounds. I force my head, as heavy and dizzy as it is, to look up and meet his eyes. He is standing too close, all I can see is the bullet proof vest.

"You're going to let me go?" I ask hoarsely - not daring to believe he's being truthful.

"Sure," he shrugs. "Why not?"

My head grows too heavy and I let my chin fall to my chest again.

"Go on. Why NOT?"

"I... don't know."

"Answer the damn question."

"I don't have an answer..." Suddenly, I feel a snap - He breaks my wrist again, both hands grasping my forearm and give it a vicious wrench. I stare at it in shock, hardly reacting to the dark, metallic pain in a frenzy of unbearable pounding, shards of lightning-heat shrieking through my wrist, hand, shoulder, heart…

I should scream out loud, fight back…

If I could only find my strength... I don't... I have nothing. "P-p-please," I begin to hyperventilate from the pain. I'm crying, hard. Big gasping sobs, over and over again.

"Shall I finish up breaking the fingers on this hand?"

"No, no, no..."

"Then why shouldn't I turn you loose?"

"B-b-because I s-s-saw your f-f-face."

He nods thoughtfully. "And what harm could that do me?"

"Cause - I know - who..." I'm trying not to throw up. "You - are?"

"There could only be two things you do," he replies. "Either you waltz into the police station as Peter Parker and you admit you're Spider-Man and that I tortured you. Hilarious. You'll be all healed up nicely by then so your proof will be gone and I have an alibi for tonight. Secondly, you march me in wrapped up in web as Spider-Man and claim... what? Torture without proof?" He leans down and looks into my eyes. "Then you look like the idiot. The red spandex idiot that mistook New York's finest for a perp. You wrapped him up in web and left him at the door with a cute little note. FOUND - BAD BOY, it says. Unless you unmask yourself right then and there, show 'em your injuries, you have nothing." He smiles and pushes at my cheek again with one finger. "Spider-Man leaves a gift for the police - one of their own," he chuckles menacingly. "They cut me out of the webbing and let me go inside. Maybe they try to shoot you down out of the sky for attacking a police officer. Maybe they miss…"

I looked up at him again, shivering hard. The shiver rides up my spine, into my chest. It's more of a convulsion. There's something seriously wrong… I need help…

"Or maybe they don't. Maybe they put a bullet in your brain." He mimes a gun with his finger and pushes it into my temple. "Pow," he whispers, agonizingly cruel, laughing at me, mocking me, enjoying every second of this. "Spider falls from the sky. Unmasked before the world. And the last thing anyone knows about you - even your precious Avengers - all they know is you spent your last few seconds on earth tying up an officer of the law in your web. Maybe you were the crooked one. You're the criminal. There is no situation," he pats my cheek sympathetically, "Where you win."

That's when I hear a tiny buzzing sound.

Bzzzz.

Bzzzzzzzz.

The in-ear was destroyed when he pulled my mask off, I was certain I wouldn't be able to hear her even if she could talk again…

But the electromagnetic effect must be wearing off - just like he said it would.

My AI - crushed like an old thumb drive on the fritz - is still trying.

...

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* * *

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 **Coming Up Next:**

A glimmer of hope.


	8. When the Tables Turn

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PSA: And yet another graphic violence warning!

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* * *

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Eight: When the Tables Turn

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A small, tinny voice appears like a light at the end of a tunnel… one I had entirely given up hope on.

"Your blood pressure is dangerously low," says a female voice quietly from somewhere near my collarbone. "And I did not discontinue the baby monitor program."

"What was that?" the officer says, rising to his full height.

"What... was... what?" I repeat, feigning innocence, too pain riddled to do anything else.

"I thought… sounded like a girl," He turns and looks with paranoia around the dark, cavernous cellar. It's just a huge basement, the horrible kind where the ceiling is just a few inches shy of seven feet.

Small wooden beams support the low ceiling as far as the eye can penetrate the shadows. This lower level parking garage, sans cars, is nothing but echoing cement, structural supports, and inky blackness. I can't even spot a glowing exit sign at the far end - there's nothing. The only way out would be the stairs behind me, back to the alley.

"Are you sure no one came down? Heard me screaming?" I manage to choke out, my voice haggard, seething. "Maybe someone's coming to get YOU."

He abruptly turns without answering and speeds off into the darkness. I can hear his weird little footsteps patter away, growing quieter and quieter.

I immediately begin to struggle. If I am going to escape with my life, it has to be now - now - NOW!

But my arms are still practically crushed in their metal cuffs, the magnet too strong to break between the huge, vice-like structures on either side of me.

My right hand and arm completely useless as broken as they are, the other okay for now - but my head - My nose bleeding so rapidly, the blood conjealing on my upper lip.

"Ugh," I manage to groan out, my head pounding mercilessly, the throbbing with every wound overwhelming my senses.

"Karen," I whisper, "If you can hear me... send... distress signal... B-b-ut -pl-lease b-b-be quiet."

"I cannot connect to outside sources," Karen's voice replies. "All that is left is the working hardware near your right shoulder, so we can communicate. The recording device is still working - but - that is all, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Peter."

My heart shatters inside my chest. "I don't want to die…" I whisper, pulling against the magnets at my wrists. My broken arm feels as if it's shrieking inside. "When he gets back, Karen, be quiet - don't let him… hear you… again..."

The more I try to move, the more pain overwhelms rational thought. If I wanted to go - and go right now - I would literally have to tear them out and leave my wrists and hands behind…

I puke again, just in time for him to become visible again in the darkness, his footsteps shuffling along more urgently than before.

He steps back into my vision, pulling the pearl-handled knife from his pocket as he did so. "I know you're not so happy to see your old pal again," he says. "But don't worry, we're almost through here."

"I'm going to die before I tell you anything," I whisper, "I'm going t-t-to die and then you have a body to discard and no information," I gag again, one, two, three times.

"I can break more fingers," the man snarls. "Huh? Do you want that? It won't kill you, that's for sure." He looks down at my foot. "Bleeding's stopped there. How long before the skin just knits itself back together? Huh? How long does it take you to heal? Give me a ballpark."

I can't answer, I'm getting dizzier by the second.

"What's the Avenger's facility like when you get past the gate? How many guards? What security systems do they use? Where does the Vision like to hang out these days?"

I cough and flinch, turning my face away. "I… don't... know."

I don't want to see him kill me…

"You're not giving me much of a choice here, then," he growls, and he

drives

the knife

between my ribs.

I scream loudly, ravagingly, body arching away from him, convulsing back in on itself, the inability to pull my arms close to the wound immediately in a defensive way making the pain exponential.

The logical left side of my brain, trying to recall biology, whispers that maybe it was not quite deep enough to damage a vital organ. I might not die tonight. There's still a chance. Have hope, have hope, have hope, my brain whispers, over and over again. It sounds like Aunt May.

The right side of my brain is shrieking in time to my real shrieks - helpless and hysterical. Stabbing is stabbing, that side of my brain argues. Super strength doesn't mean I don't feel the same pain everyone else does. It just means I'll recover in two days instead of two months. There is no way out of this now. You're stuck in this moment, sick with blood loss, trapped underground with a mad man.

You're going to die, it whispers, over and over.

Suddenly I am so unbearingly thirsty that it feels as if my bodily functions are shutting down. Maybe my organs aren't working any more. I can't recall a single thing I learned in biology to help me now. Glad to know all that studying was for nothing as soon as it counted.

I don't know -

How long I have -

That frightens me more than anything. It could be - now - it could be another hour of this.

I don't have an hour.

"TELL ME ABOUT THE DAMN AVENGERS FACILITY," the man screams in my ear. My head rings like the deaf after-effect of a bombing.

"I don't know," I wail, "I've only been there... once. Twice. Twice I think. It's just a gate and some technological sensors and I didn't see any patrols... and maybe... they only do security cameras - I don't know - I don't know - we drove in - and I was fooling around on my phone's camera and I didn't see anything..."

He withdraws the knife and tucks it, still dripping with my blood, into his pocket.

"I don't - I don't - know - p-p-lease," I sob, convulsing again, my body shuddering in on itself like an injured bug stepped on one too many times. "I'd - tell - you - if - I knew..."

My head lolls heavily - I can't stay awake -

I can't think anymore

I must be asleep again...

"The itsy bitsy spider, went up the water spout... " he begins to sing slowly, "down came the rain, to stab the spider's heart..."

"I am disobeying your order to remain silent," says Karen's voice, tin-like and covered mostly by static. "I've regained connection to output, due to irreversible damage to your in-ear mechanisms. Your life appears to be in danger."

"What the hell?" the man pauses. I look up at him, blearily. He is in mid-poise…. Karen's voice stopped him. Stopped him from plunging it right into my heart. I was three seconds from death.

I relax my body for a moment and collapse as far as my body weight drags me down to the cement floors, my arms straining and dislocating again.

I cry out loudly, in utter agony, unable to do anything but become a dead weight. Maybe dead, anyway.

"Who's there?" the man shouts, holding the knife out in front of him, defensively. He doesn't realize the voice is coming from… from me. My suit.

"This is a direct line to the Avengers," says Karen sweetly, literally switching herself into speaker-mode as if scheduling him for a conference. "I have summoned the Hulk. Would you like me to connect the call to Iron-Man as well? He is within range and getting closer. He'll be here in minutes."

"Shit, shit shit," the man drops the knife. It clatters on the floor, the sound too sharp in my ears, skittering out of his reach. If I could get to it before he did… If I rip my arms out now, I'd have no hands to pick it up with…

He runs to where he left my mask on the floor and starts stomping it to death, angrily shouting with each stop. "Die, god damn it! Stupid piece of robot SHIT!" he cries angrily, becoming unhinged.

I can hear the district crunch of whatever was left in the mask finally going. As the pieces become damaged, the connection loosens. I can feel it. Karen's voice that had emerged from my collarbone, embedded somewhere in the suit, begins, "I have this entirely under control, Peter. I'll find a way to..."

Then her voice becomes static, and sharp… before she disappears entirely. Whatever connection I used to have was gone.

"Karen," I cry, my voice cracking, not caring if he hears me. "Wait…" I call out to him. "Please - I'll do anything…"

He stops stomping on the mask, refreshing the slick-back appearance of his hair. He pushes it back with both hands, charismatically, sniffing and wiping at his nose, straightening his shirt. Erasing the signs of his temper, turning into a mild-looking man once again.

I wonder how many times he's done this on the job.

But then he retrieves the knife from the ground. "Looks like I only have a few minutes before Iron-Man swoops in to save your sorry ass," he growls, slashing the blade too close to my neck. A few more centimeters and he would have slit my throat. I know Iron-Man isn't coming from me. Karen was lying to try and save my life.

He presses the flat side of the blade on my cheek again.

"You swear that's all you know?" he asks.

"I swear, I swear, I swear, I swear," I sob, unable to stop. "I swear, I swear, I swear…"

"Shut up," he barks. He walks around the back of the structures, disappearing from my peripheral vision for a moment. Suddenly the metal panels open in the vices, and I feel the magnets release, and my body drops to the cement floor in a dead weight.

The stiff muscles in my arm scream, and so do I.

"There," he snaps with a fake smile, "Feel better?"

...

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* * *

...

 **Coming Up Next:**

The ending that Peter certainly did not expect.


	9. He Starts Monologuing

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* * *

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Nine: He Starts Monologuing

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...

I can't move my arms. I can't move, period. My body is shuddering so hard I think I must be having a something - cardiac arrest maybe?

Is this what it feels like?

Am I dying now? Just after he releases me from the machines?

Or can I get it together and get out?

"Pl-pl-ease," my voice squeaks out. "Please." I don't even know what I'm begging for. He just let me loose. Maybe I'm asking for his help.

Maybe I'm just asking for him to kill me faster, so I don't have to be in pain any longer…

"Listen, kid, I'm sorry I had to do this to ya, honest t'Odin," he kneels down beside me and in a frighteningly creepy, and yet paternal manner, brushes my sweat-plastered hair away from my forehead. "I've got people I work for. People bigger and scarier than me. I'm the little guy of my team. Maybe you understand that, huh? Being just a kid. Probably a high school kid. You're like the little sibling of the big bad Avengers, tagging along and nipping at their heels. I'm that guy. We're not so different."

I can't answer. I'm trembling too hard, but at last, I feel my arms begin to loosen. Something comes to life in my elbows, the horrible buzzing sensation in my bones slowing to - something alive. Something like energy. Maybe adrenaline will help me get through this last… few moments… after all.

I pull my arms in close to my body, tucking the hand with the broken fingers and wrist against my chest, bracing my working left hand against the puncture wound in my side. I CAN stop the bleeding, I say in my head, a mantra. The only thing I sort of believe in at this point. I can stop this bleeding. I can do it. The knife didn't go deep enough. No organs punctured. I can live through this… I can…

Or maybe he was just going to mercifully allow me to feel the final stroke of death without my arms magnetized, the torture of knowing my hands could defend myself - try to block the killing blow - and then be too weak to do it.

That would be unbearable. But what would I care? I'd be dead.

"You see - with the people I work with - I'm the new guy," he says convincingly, "They give me all the jobs they don't like. Pitting me against the guys I'd rather be friends with. Sound familiar? Naw, don't answer that right now. Anyhow. It's not easy to come up with the resources alone. I had to get all this down here myself, in a place where no one would hear you cry like a little pussy."

"So... typical," I whisper.

"What's that?" he asks, surprised at getting interrupted, and not sounding pleased about it.

"B-bad g-g-guy monologue. Sp-p-pilling all the plans. No-no it's good," somehow, my inappropriate sense of humor and bad habit of quipping at these guys can't stop, not even now. Like the Black Glove famous sidekick, the Red Cardinal, I had the funny lines whenever they counted - and certainly when they shouldn't.

But I've never been good at shutting up.

"Keep m-m-monologuing," I say. "M-m-maybe you'll say something important."

The man sits back and guffaws loudly. "I am not telling you any plans. Do you have any idea what we're doing with the details of the Avengers facility? I'll even tell you. Nothing. Oh, you look surprised. That's right - nothing. We are doing nothing about it."

I try to turn away from him on the floor, groaning loudly. The freezing cold, cement floor feels like ice-picks jabbing me where it hurts the most. And yet, it is still better than the burning, inflamed muscles held by my own arm weight. "Okay, well," I whisper, trying to crawl away on my elbows. "You got your information." I'm moving too slowly - I won't be able to leave unless he lets me. So I keep on chattering, awkwardly. "N-n-nice to meet you. I'll - just - see myself - out now."

"Almost," he follows me slowly, a circling shark, and starts patting my body awkwardly.

"Get off me," I rasp, a pause in my tortured army crawl, wondering if I could at least turn onto my back - maybe kick him. Kick him with the non-injured foot, one part of me left unhurt. That could be my last card. What if I played it too early?

"Don't flatter yourself," the man growls. He pats my side and finds where my old cellphone is tucked into the zippered pocket near my hip. "Gotcha," he says, tugging it out.

"I didn't... film... the facility," I whisper, still lying on the fly, in horror of what I had done.

I realize I HAD given something away. In my effort to explain I didn't know anything about the complex, I gave away a detail - that I was playing with my camera phone while Happy was driving. And I was filming. I don't know that there would be anything except my stupid face and a double-chin shot whenever I dropped the phone in my lap by accident - but I don't know that I didn't catch anything through the windows. Or maybe Happy narrated the drive like a tour guide and said something vitally important. I don't know.

It's not worth the risk.

"Sure, sure sure," mocks the man, his face elated. But his expression swiftly changes - to one of disgust. "What the hell?" he says, opening the back. The battery, along with the rest of the inside of the phone, is completely melted.

"Son of a bitch," he mumbles, throwing the phone on the ground. It shatters into three or four pieces, which he quickly gathers up and shoves back into my pocket, giving the zipper an angry tug.

"I'm sorry," I whisper brokenly.

There's nothing more I can give him. I've expired my capabilities. He must know by now that Iron-Man isn't coming - or perhaps he's stupid enough to think that Iron-Man IS still coming, but he has more time than it takes for him to get here with rockets in his suit.

He stands abruptly, his voice clipped, and cool. His face his own kind of mask, serene and thoughtless. "Yeah, well, can't be helped, can it?" He looks down at me. "Remember what I said."

"You... said... a lot of...things."

"You can tell the world you're Peter Parker and that I'm the guy who tortured you as Spider-Man. You can tell the whole world I am the man who tortured Spider-Man, but without Peter Parker there will be no proof. Lose lose. Either way you submit to the authorities and believe me, in my jurisdiction, they're all just as morally confused as me. I'd get a slap on the wrist, if anything. Got it?"

I nod painfully and the gesture makes me cough up… more blood. Shit. If I don't get help soon… If I can't get out of here…

Oh, god. I don't want to die alone. Not without saying goodbye. Ned. May. Happy. MJ. Mr. Stark.

"Wh-where's your jurisdiction?" I ask hoarsely, wiping at my mouth.

He grins. "Just stay away from Hell's Kitchen. You'd sooner end up dead in a gutter than come anywhere close to me."

He cocks his head at me, like those creepy, poison-spitting dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. A curious, puppy like expression, if he isn't so deadly.

"I'm going to leave you here," he says slowly, as if just now deciding this. "I figure you'll recover in an hour, right? Ain't that how it works?"

I can barely respond. No, that's not how it works. I needed medical help just as much as the next guy if I'm bleeding out. Instead, I nod, numbly.

"Great," he says sarcastically. "Well… I gotta get the hell out of here before Stark shows up. See ya around, Spider-Man."

The man stomps off into the darkness of the garage. He aims for the stairs. After a few moments of agonizing silence of me being unable to move, I hear the whine of his car as he puts it in reverse, the brakes letting out a painfully high-pitched squeal any time he taps them to slow down.

With a growl, the car is back in the street and disappearing into the darkness of the night - night? Or morning?

I have no sense of time at this point.

I think about how upset and worried Aunt May must be, and it just turns into a whimper of her name. "Aunt May," I whisper brokenly. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

If I can cry, my brain says, I'm still alive. Get up.

I need to call for help - but the phone is fried. Karen, for all I know, is also fried, after a long fight. I'm alone. But I need help. I know I'm not okay. I know I have a broken nose, two broken fingers, lacerations to the forearms, chest, and neck, stab wounds in the ribs and foot. The dislocated shoulders don't feel as bad as they did before… maybe they're healing. The broken wrists, too, from the gauntlet things, are stiff… but not with the same lightning shards of pain. Maybe the bones are healing, too. Even with one re-broken, more sore than the other, but without the same sharpness.

Are the web shooters broken too? They are a little closer to the palm of my hand than where the weird gauntlet-cuff magnets placed the most pressure. The vices had probably done the worst of it.

Curled up on the cement floor, still shivering, I hold my hand up to my face - the left hand, with all the working fingers.

I press the sensor with the two middle fingers per usual; nothing. Not even a spark or a sign of working technology.

Okay, have to do this the old fashioned way, then.

I roll over onto my side, crying aloud with the pain it pushes into my shoulders to do so. I brace myself on an elbow and slowly push myself to my knees.

For a moment I kneel there, the left hand holding myself from falling back onto the ground. Deep breaths - over and over. I had lost count as to how many times I had lost consciousness tonight. Three times? Five? I don't know how bad that is - even with two concussions, maybe three, in the last week and a half. I'm… a nerd with good grades. Not a doctor with a degree.

My heart is pounding so hard - afraid that - after all the work, and pain, it will take to stand - after all that - I will hear the whine of the brakes, and the car will park outside my only exit.

The man will be waiting for me, waiting to finish me off while I'm weak.

"All right, Spider-idiot," I whisper to myself. I slide my right hand out a few feet, reaching carefully for my discarded mask. I hook my uninjured thumb through the opening, dragging it towards me. My elbow gives out for a moment, and I rest my forehead on the cool floor.

"Get up. Get out. Get help. Come on."

I sit up again, pushing myself all the way off the floor so that I'm sitting back on my heels. This hurts far too much for my blood-covered foot, so I bite the bullet and use my left hand on the vice to pull myself to my feet, shouting hoarsely with pain. I try to hold my arm with the broken fingers up tight to my chest, keeping the mask with me. Though that leaves the stab wound in the side without any pressure.

But I'm standing - which that in itself feels like a small miracle.

I limp towards the stairs. Or, not even limp. My feet would have to leave the ground for it to be a limp.

I shuffle, sliding each foot in front of the other, slowly but surely, skating across the cement floor till I reach the bottom. I look up and groan deeply. It looks like a million miles to the top.

I take each step one at a time, both feet per step. It's okay, I tell myself. It's not the first time you've pushed through pain. It could be worse, there could be a building on top of you!

Push through to each step like you did with the cement pillars, crushed on top of you.

It's easier than that.

It's easier than that.

It's easier than that.

You're free… free… free…

...

...

* * *

...

 **Coming Up Next:**

It's not the Brooklyn 99 but it's close enough.


	10. The Adventures of Jeff and Brian

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Ten: The Adventures of Jeff and Brian

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I hum slightly, trying to pin my focus on something other than the pains it takes for any jarring movement, definitely not limited to each damn step.

I know at this point the only thing keeping me going is adrenaline, but it will wear off. And then what? I pass out for like a sixth or seventh time and die in an alleyway?

I get to the top step and sag against the wall. I can do this.

Then I'm in the alley way, the cold of the night hitting me like a force. I can see my breath. I brace myself against the brick wall and slowly move towards the light of the streetlamp at the far end, lighting my way back to civilization.

End of the tunnel. But not death like I thought.

I'm going to get through this, Aunt May. I'm coming home. I promised. I promised I wouldn't hurt you again. I swear. I won't - not again.

I reach the end of the alleyway and try to get my bearings. I don't know how long I had slipped in and out of consciousness when the police officer shoved me in the back of his car, so we could have been driving for any amount of time. I'm still clearly in New York but I have no idea which part - not from the ground, anyway. Even if I find a street sign at this point, I might not be able to identify it just by looking at it. Especially if it's something vague like Smith Street or Green Road - a generic name like that could leave me dying in a gutter, legs finally giving out because there was no one to ask for directions. What's left of my phone is in melted pieces in my pocket.

My ability to find help feels directly linked to my ability to swing myself home - which at this point, I don't think I would survive. It's that simple.

I lean against the brick wall and check the wound in my side again. On a normal human, it likely would not have stopped bleeding from the time he stabbed me till now, I'd be going into septic shock and probably be dead in minutes. Taking the stairs from the garage caused it to begin freshly bleeding again, blood running warm and sticky down the side of the suit and leg. The pain of multiple injuries clamor so hard for attention I can't point out a single one that stands out above the rest. My chest, arms, foot, side, lungs, neck, shoulders, nose... Each throb at the same overheated, high-speed heartbeat.

I try to think back to the ride in the car. I was out of it then, too, so I wasn't exactly listening for any clues of travel - whether we heard a bridge rising or nearby landmarks. The city noises blend together.

I don't even really remember being in the car. The only memory keeping me tethered to it is the fact that I was conscious when he dragged me out of the backseat.

For all I know we could have gone back. Maybe he followed me for a long time. Maybe he spotted me at the fire and knew I would be moving slowly after...

There's a lot of noises coming from somewhere nearby. I'm so close my senses go into overdrive to try and distinguish between the sounds - there's an acrid smell of smoke in the air, heavy with charcoal and burnt plastic. Voices are calling out to one another. A siren echoes, a lonely wail contributing to the chaotic panic of a New Yorker's lullaby.

I'm back almost nearly to where I started.

"Karen?" I ask. There's no answer. My AI is dead. She can't call anyone.

I'm two blocks from the apartments that were on fire.

He had finally caught me and then circled back, taking me even closer to people who could help me - and yet the chaos of a city disaster would have drowned out any of my screams. The bad neighborhood turns a blind eye and ear to my distress. A situation where if an off-duty cop from Hell's Kitchen stood nearby - no one would think twice about it. None would be the wiser. He had already set up his torture-station in this neighborhood. Then the fire started, and he probably went over there to see for himself. Not because his friends in blue and yellow were helping others - but because he knew he might run into me there. How lucky for him. A fire starts so close to where he already planned to hurt me. He couldn't have planned it any better... Oh wait.

Maybe he did. Maybe he set the fire. That would make a lot more sense.

He needed to draw me close to where he had an empty basement garage to use. What's a little arson compared to torturing a kid like me?

He waited until I came down low enough for a good shot… been stalking me the whole time. I'll return the favor, I think nastily, If I survive this.

I begin making my way slowly down the block. Just a few more steps, Spider-Man. Just make it past that telephone pole. Okay... now that stairwell. One more half-block. See that corner? Just make it around that corner, at least. Okay. Now you've made it past the corner - don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop.

I stop, bracing myself on one of those small, iron fences guarding a deep stairwell cutting underneath a building.

...Can't

catch

my

breath...

Shit.

Something happens in my chest. It feels as if a small folded blanket beneath my sternum suddenly… unfolds itself. Loosens. A thick, organic shift deep inside of me -

Breathing feels…

Impossible.

Stay upright, I tell myself. That's the most important thing.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

It's not painful, but it's not supposed to happen, whatever it is.

Each breath is a short little huff sound, enough to fill my mouth with a puff of air and nothing else. It doesn't feel the same as hyperventilating, but that's sort of what it is.

Each intake is a strange, whining sound. An exhale does - nothing, except make me feel vaguely claustrophobic.

I reach the street barrier. There's people milling about, on walkie talkies and cellphones, all aimed towards the fire and not looking at a shadowy figure approaching from a dead street at o'dark thirty in the morning.

I spot a familiar figure. Of all people, someone I recognize - appearing to me out of the crux of my memory like a flashlight in a dark room. The guy who was worried I'd turn into a giant green giant and go to town on Harlem like Dr. Banner did several years ago.

The fireman. He is, ironically, smoking a cigarette outside of the police barrier. His face and arms are dark with soot. He looks withdrawn and exhausted. His jacket and helmet lay in an abandoned pile by his feet, the yellow jumpsuit pants held up by thick red suspenders. He's on a break, talking on his phone while he smokes.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he says. "It was a trip, huh? Yeah, I'm outside of it now. Bummed a smoke from Harry. South side if you wanted to."

He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and looks down at me. It takes a moment for him to realize what he's seeing.

"Hey Brian," he says slowly, "I'm actually going to need you to come here ASAP. Someone needs help. YES, like, PARAMEDIC HELP."

I slip to one knee, unable to carry myself any further, one hand clattering against the small metal fence when I try to catch myself and fail miserably.

"Can you - help - me," I choke out, unable to inhale enough. I put a hand to my slashed, bloodied chest to feel my heart racing.

In an impressively short millisecond, Jeff puts out his cigarette on the cement with a grinding heel, drops his phone on the ground, and slips his arms around my upper body to keep me from falling.

I briefly hear a catch of a voice on the other line. "Jeff, how much help you need? Steven is still here…"

"Dude," Jeff says in horror, "Who the hell - or what - did this to you? Is it still around? Headed this way?"

I shake my head. "N-n-no."

"Was anyone else hurt? Or just you?"

"M-m-me." I lose my ability to hold myself up, and fall back against him. He gently lowers me down to the ground. The cement, hard and cold, hurts every part of me. I let out a sharp groan and felt my chest tighten. "Nuh... uh..." I choke out. "Can't... breathe."

"Don't move lil' buddy," Jeff replies. "I gotta grab my stuff - shit, no, I can't leave you here. Brian will bring his stuff. Shit." Jeff picks up his fallen cell and holds it to his ear again. "You're still on. You're coming now? No, don't call anyone else. Now," he adds the last part, urgently, "Shit - man, get down here now. It's the Spider guy. Hurry." He lays his phone down again, pressing his ear against my chest briefly. He doesn't have a stethoscope with him. "Okay, I'm going to take a wild guess here and say collapsed lung. Damnit I know I am doing this wrong - I think I am skipping steps - hey," he exclaims back into the phone, "Are you bringin everything? Oh, I don't know - fucking everything?! Spider-Guy is bad, dude. Really bad. He's having trouble breathing. He's so covered in blood right now I can't tell where - his lung? Yeah. I've got puncture wounds, lacerations - yeah, I forgot that. Okay. I got it. Thanks."

Jeff leans back over me and gently pulls my right side up and leans me onto my left side. This eases the weirdness in my chest.

"Seriously - dude - you didn't leave us looking like this. This wasn't from average superhero stuff, right?" Jeff starts shoving away the torn pieces of my suit and trying to disentangle some of the wires still connecting the pieces. He's trying to look at the stab wound in my side. "Who did this to you?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "Somebody..."

"Where'd your mask go?" he asks confusedly. "I thought you never went without it."

I can't answer. I'm only whimpering. I sound like a dog that just got hit in the street by a car.

"Shh, shhh, it's okay, lil' buddy," Jeff presses the backs of his fingers against my temple in a loving, comforting manner. "We'll take care of you." He sees Brian pushing one of the barriers out of the way, plastic-handled tubs in each hand, and waves him over with his other arm. "We're going to get you some help."

Brian sits down beside us and looks down at my face in disbelief. I know that expression - the shock at my age. But he shakes off the questions and goes right to work.

He does a quick scan, looking me over, a little overwhelmed at the sheer extent of injuries. "Okay," he says, his voice hitching with worry. "It looks like - a puncture wound here, and down on his foot. Lacerations on the chest and arms and face. I'm seeing a few broken bones - nose, fingers - wrist, maybe." He uses his hands tentatively and gently to keep me on my side, which makes it easier to breathe.

"Do you know what happened?" Brian asks Jeff.

"I don't know, he says he was the only one hurt," Jeff replies with a worried shrug. "That it was some guy."

I look blearily down into the dark asphalt. The details in the cracks and the tiny beads of grass poking through have my complete focus. It's easier to zero in on something that doesn't matter than it is to think about what was happening less than an hour ago. "...I escaped," I mumble.

"Escaped?" Jeff asks. "Escaped what?"

"Can you call for the bus?" Brian starts.

"Dude, no," Jeff interjects. "It's Spider-Man. Come on. We can't - we can't be the guys that out him from the hero closet?"

"Okay, yeah, I thought so too," Brian says, opening one of the containers he brought with him and pulling random items out and placing them on the pavement. "But that was when it was just a little smoke inhalation and I actually thought it'd be someone, like, famous and recognizable under the mask. This is a kid. Fuck - where's his parents? Did you think about that?"

"It's not right," Jeff exclaims. "I didn't call you out here to blow this shit up. I called you because you left his mask on earlier. You're the guy. He can trust you - and me. You know?" Jeff bends down and and shines a tiny light into my eyes. "You can trust us, little dude. Don't listen to this guy."

"What if he dies, huh? Laying here on the street?" Brian whispers. "And we're standing here with his blood on our hands?"

"We got to do what we can."

"What we can do may not be enough," Brian snaps, pressing a stethoscope to my back. I make a pathetic sort of whimper. I'm in so much pain I've almost completely checked out mentally, but feel so unbearably physically present that there's even little relief from the fact I'm no longer in danger from more torture.

"We could get fired for not doing this properly," Brian continues. "We could lose everything."

"Yeah, well, maybe we get killed for getting sucked into some sort of inter-dimensional Avengers conflict, huh?" Jeff exclaims. "Let's think big picture. We take him to the hospital and the Hulk attacks and like destroys an entire wing, with multiple casualties and then frickin' Iron Man sues us for a hundred million dollars!"

"Respiratory rate 24," Brian says, and he slides a strap around my head. "We'll get you some air, here, okay, uh, Spider-Man?"

The oxygen mask puts pressure on my broken nose. I whimper again, putting my uninjured hand - still balled around my mask - to try and pull it away.

Jeff notices, gently pulling my hand down. "I know it hurts, Spidey-Dude. But you need some help with the breathin', okay? Oh look, there's your mask! Uh... you just keep holding onto it for now, cuz it won't help. Leave this one on." The two of them gently roll me over onto my back again, but this time there is something between me and the cement. Something thin they were able to unfold, and nothing comfortable, unfortunately. Another tarp.

I'm crying inside the mask, fogging up the inside and hot tears streaming down to the straps, making them itch like crap. Brian gently tries to adjust the straps and make it a little more comfortable, his hand coming away from the back of my head with drying blood on his blue medical gloves. His eyes widen slightly and he pulls more gauze out of his box.

Jeff is still holding my wrist and hand loosely in his, trying to check for the pulse.

Brian zeroes in on the stab wound first in my side, moving away the ripped edges of the suit around it and gently pressing a some sort of thick, gauzy material over it. "Can you get the foot?" he asks quietly.

"On it," Jeff replies. He grabs something else from the ground - I realize it's his thick fireman's jacket - and balls it up in his hands, gently lifting my feet off the ground and setting them on top.

"You're so not passing your tests," Brian intones dryly, checking the knife wound again between my ribs.

"I realize that now!" Jeff barks. "I've done everything wrong so far, I just can't remember the right ones! But I'm all you got, and volunteering for this shit, too!" He wraps something around my foot. "Fuck ride-alongs!" he barks.

If my lung hadn't collapsed, I'd laugh right now.

"He needs a hospital, though, you know that, right?" Brian starts cleaning and laying more gauze and bandages over my chest. My body shudders beneath his touch. "Ow," I groan quietly.

"If you call someone else who blabs this poor kid's face to the whole internet, then things like this might happen to him again!"

"You're the worst," Brian replies.

"He seems... okay... to me..." I mumble inside the mask, despite a sudden sharp, searing pain suddenly in my foot, zipping up through my leg like my nervous system is on fire. "Ow," I say again, louder.

"He speaks!" Brian says, looking a little surprised. "I don't really know how you're conscious right now."

"Jeff's a newbie," Jeff is saying in third person, his voice high and affected. He's digging through one of the supply kits and completely unaware we are listening. "Jeff doesn't want to be a paramedic or an EMT, Jeff just wants to put water on fires! Jeff has no goals!"

Despite everything, I crack a smile through the tears.

"We've got to take him to the hospital," Brian repeats quietly, then looks down at me again. "Okay - buddy - I need to get your wrists wrapped up here. And these seriously messed up fingers. This'll hurt a bit."

"Hnng," is all I can manage when Brian puts my left wrist in a small plastic splint.

"Really hurts," I try to say, the mask beginning to make me feel claustrophobic. I pull it off with my right hand.

"Come on, kid, you gotta leave that on. And quit moving that other wrist till I can splint it too."

"Just... a little break," I whisper. "Please. My... uh... lungs feel... better."

"Oh sure," Jeff exclaims... "Because why not? Why not have lungs that can self-heal? Totally normal."

"Hang on, this'll hurt," Brian says. He's moved on to my broken fingers. "One, two, three."

I'm crying again, and speaking somewhat nonsensically. "Wh-who n-n-needs fingers an-y-y-way?" my sarcasm is a little overwhelmed, to put it nicely. "I... want to... go... home."

"Where's home?" Brian asks. "Where's your family? Where do you live?"

The difference between a cop from Hell's Kitchen and an EMT from Manhattan asking the same question shouldn't be so exponential. But it is.

I only shake my head slightly and look away.

"There's got to be someone we can call," Jeff says.

"Karen?" I whisper. No response, still. I don't think she's self healing. She'll need some major repairs. But… my brain is too fuzzy. Jeff and Brian have phones. They could call Aunt May. But Aunt May can't fix me… My brain struggles to think of what I'm supposed to do. If I weren't so frazzled by what happened and overwhelmed with iron-hot, throbbing pain in every part of me, I'm sure the solution would be easy.

"Who's Karen?" asks Brian. "Is that your mom? Can we call your mom for you?"

I am guessing she was unsuccessful - just as well, anyway.

"N-n-n-no," I whisper. "My mom is dead."

I didn't mean to say it, it just fell out. Technically, I have a mom. Aunt May has been my mom for most of my life. But the truth was - my real mother was dead. So was my dad. And I didn't want them to call Aunt May - this would be too much, I knew it. Too much like how Uncle Ben left us - lying in the street like this, in the darkness, bleeding out...

"Sorry," Brian replies kindly. "Is there someone else? A guardian, maybe?"

Jeff was right. I didn't want to go to a hospital if I could avoid it. But now that I am lying here on the ground - is just getting a few bandaids and waddling away even possible? I don't even know the full extent of my injuries. I hadn't thought the puncture wound between the ribs was even the worst - but then after coughing up blood and having trouble breathing - it was. What did I know? Clearly not enough to save my own life.

My eyes widen. Of course. They need to call Happy. My phone might be on the fritz but that doesn't mean I don't have Happy's number memorized. I'm beyond grateful I took the time to commit it to memory - even though at the time it felt like such a childish thing to do.

"Call… Happy," I whisper.

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 **Coming Up Next:**

Hospitals aren't a good option and Happy is on speed dial. What could go wrong? Or rather, can it finally go right?


	11. Happy Sends a Prototype

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Eleven: Happy Sends a Prototype

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"Happy? Who's Happy?" Brian is pulling his phone back out of his pocket, fingers poised and ready. "What's his number?"

I recite his number haltingly, each breath incredibly painful to take. It feels as if there's a steel rod shoved up my abdomen, running parallel to my spine, and stabbing me in the throat.

"Who is he?" Jeff asks. "Is it your dad?"

I shake my head blearily. I'm freezing. I can't think past any particular… question…

"Hey, it's okay, kid," Jeff reaches over to pat my shoulder. I flinch.

"Hurts there too, huh?" he asks.

"They were… dislocated," I reply.

"What the hell?" Jeff replies. "And they're not now?"

"It's ringing," Brian waves a hand at Jeff to make him shut up.

"This is Happy Hogan speaking, and how did you get this number?" says Happy confusedly.

"Hello - uh - sir," Brian says awkwardly. "My name is Brian McGovern, I'm a paramedic in Manhattan. I, uh, have a patient here that asked me to call you -"

"Who?" Happy asks sharply.

"I don't know his name, uh, sir, but it's Spider-Man. THE Spider-Man?"

"Why isn't he calling me? What's wrong with him?"

"He's been, uh, very - very badly injured, sir. Are you a parent? Or a guardian?"

"I'm worse," Happy growls. "I'm his handler." There's a strange clicking sound. "I'm sure you know I am tracing this call right now - " there's muffled voices in the background, as if he's shouting orders at god-knows-who and using some sort of high tech to pinpoint our location.

"Sure - okay," Brian says unsurely. "I was going to tell you we're at the corner of..."

"Don't bother. It's done. We have your location. Talk to me. What are the extent of his injuries?"

"Multiple lacerations and stab wounds - broken bones - collapsed lung..."

"Oh shit. Damnit, damnit, damnit," I can hear Happy try to curse away from the phone. Still rings clearly. "Is he - how critical are we, here? Is he going to make it?"

"I'm going to go for very - very critical," Brian says. "Deadly injuries if not for - uh - perhaps super-human or enhanced abilities at work here. He is dangerously injured at this juncture. If you are his legal guardian, I would like to call for an ambulance, sir..."

"I must advise against that," Happy replies. "We'll take care of him here."

"Here?" Jeff mouths confusedly, unrolling a IV line and a bag of fluid. "Where's HERE?"

"How do we get him to you, sir?" Brian rolls with it, giving Jeff a shrug.

"We're coming to you. Sit tight. Can you tell me what happened to him?"

Brian looks to Jeff for an explanation.

"You heard what I heard. He said he 'escaped'," Jeff shrugs. "Who the hell would do this... Jesus."

"Is he conscious? Can he talk?" Happy asks urgently.

Brian looks down at me hesitantly.

I nod. "I want to." I use my right hand to try and push the oxygen mask off the rest of the way, Brian slowly pulls it up and over my head, eyes huge.

"How are you talking?" Jeff questions, but a sharp glance from Brian shuts him up. "I'm sticking this IV in your arm now," he whispers, apologetically. "You'll start feeling better really soon."

"I think he's okay to talk for a minute," Brian says.

"Put him on," Happy commands.

Brian holds the phone up to my ear, careful not to touch any of the bruises on the side of my head from one too many punches.

"H-hey Happy," I say, my voice breaking.

"Jesus Christ, kiddo. You're going to be okay. Okay? We're nearly there."

"Uh huh."

"What happened?"

"Long..." deep breath. "...story." Maybe my lung fixed itself. Can it do that?

"We'll be there in... about one minute. We'll bring you back here."

"Here?"

"The complex. Got a whole med team here."

"O...kay." I see a tiny speck of light in the far distance - like a falling star - and get distracted.

"You hurt pretty bad?" Happy asks, even though he knows. As if he somehow needs me to tell him the paramedic isn't just pulling his leg.

"Y-yeah," I moan slightly. "Pretty bad."

"What happened? Short version."

"Uh… shot down... put in a car... tied up... for … a few hours. Got away." It's hard to try and summarize in a few words. Either I sound like I'm making it worse than it is, or I'm making light of it. "He... uh... wanted... information."

Brian's eyes light up in realization. I think part of him believed escaped was from a fight with some criminals, maybe a crime I interrupted. He puts two and two together, and tugs the phone back briefly. "Sir," he says, "McGovern, again, here. I believe Spider-Dude- Man," he corrects quickly, shooting a glare at Jeff. "He was tortured, for a long time, I think. What's your ETA?"

"Soon, nearly there - put him back on - please - just for another second," Happy sounds flustered, as usual, but worried beyond even his capacity.

Brian returns the phone to my ear.

"Who was it?" Happy asks.

"I don't... know," I say. They'll have everything from Karen when she's back online, anyway. There's no reason for me to try and explain it now, especially if she was correct about still having footage data. They would know soon enough.

"Happy… I need… aunt…" I bite back her name at the last second. As much as I am trusting Jeff and Brian right now, the less they know, the better. I won't risk revealing who May is - in turn - risk revealing myself. Even by proxy. These were good guys - but if someone like this whackjob got to them, they'd be goners. They didn't have super-fast-healing-powers resetting their systems every few hours and keeping deadly injuries from being just that.

"Please call my aunt," I whisper brokenly, tears streaming down my face again. Even now - when I'm alive, and here, and rescued… I still feel frightened.

Like fate would see me get to a safe place, only to die there, instead of captivity. A taste of freedom before I lose it entirely.

"We'll get you first. Then her. I promise." Happy swears. "Is your AI disconnected?"

"Electro...magnetic..." I mumble. Whatever is in the IV is lessening the pain. Probably morphine or something. Either way it's making me all woozy… My ears fill with a distant roaring sound, sort of line an approaching sports car. "Karen sorta died… Like a big… flash bang…"

Brian pulls the phone back. "Sir," he says, "Spider-Man's drifting off a bit. We finally got some pain meds into his system. Can we expect that - uh - this transport you're arranging - will it be adequate to make sure my patient here doesn't die of blood loss and…"

The roaring isn't just in my head, it's everywhere now. Not so much a roar as it is an engine sound - growing higher pitched as it approaches. The light in the sky suddenly zooms around a distant skyscraper, black against the dark purple horizon. Definitely not a shooting star, unless they follow flight plans and have their own AI...

"What the hell?" Jeff gasps "Is that Iron Man?"

"Uh - sir," Brian says, "If - if you've somehow - sent Iron Man to come collect him - I will strongly advise...no," his brow furrows and he frowns heavily. "I absolutely forbid you from taking my patient up in the sky like a fucking rag doll and exposing him to the cold air like that - he'd be dead when he arrives, I guaran-effing-tee." He pins the phone to his chest and looks at Jeff. "I'm calling it," he barks. "These guys must be IDIOTS. Call a bus."

Jeff's eyes are wide. "For real?"

"No, no! NOT for 'real'!" Happy's voice echoes right back, though slightly muffled. "Wait just a goddamn second! We have the best medical team in the - He's in far better hands than he would be anywhere else - Hello? Can you hear me? HELLO! DAMNIT!"

The sound of machinery grows louder, and Iron-Man descends over the street. The power of the thrusters in the legs and arms shorten, extend, and shorten again in bursts of light and the sounds of power-torches as they calculate landing in just the right spot - immediately next to us, on the street.

The Iron suit stops, the glow behind the eyes looking robotically dead and intimidating with that slightly angry slant. It's not an ordinary suit. It's mostly silver, with white bands on either arms with a red cross on either shoulder. The blue emblem on the chest looks familiar, like a coat of arms from some old-school pub.

I expect an angry Tony Stark voice to emerge any minute - only it doesn't.

"What exactly am I looking at right now?" Brian asks, bringing the phone back to his ear. "That's… not Iron-Man."

"It's a prototype medsuit," Happy says on the phone. "Just do exactly what it says. It's the safest ambulance you'll never see again."

The suit hisses like a train with steam and begins to unlace itself at the chest, abdomen, and in the seams of the legs and the arms, opening itself to reveal - no one at all. A few dragfins and flaps emerge from the shoulders and legs, condensing in shape like a transformer until the Iron-Man suit itself is shaped more like… a coffin than a person. It's eerie.

A male A.I. voice comes from the mouth.

"Put him in," it says.

Jeff and Brian stare at the medsuit in shock.

"I strongly advise against this," Brian says in a monotone into the phone, not taking his gaze off of the suit.

"I strongly advise not keeping it waiting," Happy intones.

"It's okay," I mutter, trying to push myself up on one elbow. "This… stuff… happens… all th' time."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Brian says quickly, shoving one hand underneath my shoulder to give me some stability. "You - don't need - to go anywhere."

"Hey!" begins Happy.

"Yet," amends Brian. "Jesus. Can you - I don't know - like - make the thing lie down? The kid can't even stand!"

The medsuit contracts and lowers backwards to the ground, making whirring and metallic sounds like Optimus Prime. Jeff is staring at it like he may never fully recover.

"Tell the kid I'll see him soon, I'm going to track down his aunt," Happy says.

"He says he's going to find your aunt," Brian repeats back to me. "And he'll see you soon."

I nod. "O-okay."

"I guess we help him into that," says Jeff.

"You're going to need a new career," Brian snaps.

"I know," bemoans Jeff, standing up and brushing himself off. "Even if no one finds out about this, I'm fired. Or I quit! I don't know! Let's do this."

"Anyone coming?" Brian asks.

Jeff peers down the street. The lights of the emergency vehicles flash, yellow, red and blue, splaying against the sides of the buildings like disco lights. But they're all back behind the police barrier around the corner of the nearest building.

"Nope," he replies.

"Okay," Brian says. "I gotta put the phone down, now, sir."

"I've got a line in the suit," Happy responds. "Do what you need to. And be quick about it, please, and thank you."

Brian sets his phone down and grasps the side of the tarp beneath me. Jeff grabs the other side.

"One, two, three!"

They hoist me up; not too gently, but fast enough. I'm lying inside the hollow suit before I've even had a chance to notice. Whatever is in the IV is definitely working.

"Ow," I mumble. But I don't remember feeling the thump of being placed inside, but reacted nevertheless. Everything is turning gray around me.

I feel like I'm forgetting their names, sliding in and out of the present, forgetting that I spoke to Happy, wondering why I'm in an Iron-Man suit.

"Godspeed, I guess," Jeff says somewhat worriedly, tucking the IV down by my leg. "I am assuming this thing'll… uh… close up like a rocket and transfer you all safe and sound to some hidden base for enhanced gifted peeps with cool powers and…stuff."

"Uh huh," I mumble. "Pro'bly."

My arms don't go into the arm-shapes of the medsuit like they would on a real Iron suit. They remain at my sides, these suit-arms are primarily for steering, not for potentially placing broken limbs. Same with the legs - they only look leg-shaped, but they're sealed together like a sleeping bag, allowing me to stretch out inside. With a whir, they actually withdraw slightly to make up for the height difference. At least I won't be sliding up and down inside while the suit is going at rocket speed. But that doesn't make me comfortable. I feels like sitting in a desk at school.

"Take care of yourself," Brian says stoically, frowning heavily. "If you - uh - if you get jostled around too much in there and start bleeding again, you'll probably lose consciousness… you'll get to where-ever and probably get rushed into surgery. They'll fix up anything damaged by that stab wound in your side, here. Probably getchya a transfusion - you know - from the blood loss… and… well, it's out of our hands now. Just so you… feel prepared." He suddenly looks away and clears his throat. "Be good, kid."

"Th-thanks for helping me," I say nervously. I can hear it in his voice. He thinks this is a bad idea. He hates the idea of sending someone he's helping into a prototype invention that will go skyrocketing at top speeds towards a place that is not a hospital.

"You're welcome," he replies, emotionally. He taps the side of the medsuit.

Jeff nods at me. "Kick ass, lil guy," he says, followed by a gesture at his forehead like he's pulling down the edge of a non existent cap.

"Preparing transport," says the AI voice again, a masculine, robotic tone that sounds like an odd sort of mix of Vision, Mr. Stark, and someone whose nose is getting pinched.

Jeff and Brian both scramble back. Jeff is wringing his hands, looking back and forth from me to Brian. Brian looks upset still, an inner debate raging in his head that I couldn't possibly guess. I don't know much about paramedics… but I am guessing this breaks every rule in the book.

Then the medsuit makes a hydraulic whoosh sound and shuts, sealing me up inside like a tomb with legs.

"Hear me okay, kid?" Happy's voice is somewhere in the pitch black. "I got a doctor waiting there for ya. He's going to take over this channel in a second. I'm on my way to get your aunt. Shouldn't take too long, we'll be there soon."

I can feel the suit move around me, the sounds of the thrusters activating and a strange warmth coming from the feet. I have no idea what it looks like from the outside - still coffin shaped? Or do I look like Rhodes volunteering for the Red Cross?

"Ya hear me?" he repeats.

"Uh huh," I shudder with uncertainty. "A-a-any chance we could get some l-l-ight in here?"

"Initiating emergency interior control," the AI answers creepily.

Much like the AI in my spider suit… when it's working… there's a screen where my eyeline should be, showing me the outside, but with animated graphics in 3D showing me things I don't really care about; like how the suit is pumped with the same sort of oxygen from a normal mask to help me breathe… my vitals and temperature... a percentage of how likely my chances are at surviving the flight…

Wait, what?

PPPPWWWOOOOOOOOSHHHHHBBBBTTTTTTTT…

The suit takes off.

Like being in a roller coaster with your eyes shut, the speed feels incredible - I just can't - see it. The suit does little to quiet the wind rushing by, as loud as being on the back of a motorcycle.

The percentage disappears before I really have a chance to look at it. A lot of things are clicking, changing, and moving from eyeline to peripheral vision and then disappearing. It's making me sick. On the plus side, though, there are tiny lights, like the dashboard of a car. At least it's not nothing.

"Well - this is," I struggle to find the right words. My ears are ringing a little. "...weird."

"Okay - putting the doc on, now, okay?" Happy says. "I promise. We're going to take care of you."

I think I remember speaking with the doctor - at least, a voice comes through the speaker that isn't the AI, and I think I respond. I forget it almost instantly.

And then, silence. Am I alone?

"How… long…?" I struggle to stay awake long enough to hear an answer.

"We are three minutes from our destination," says the AI.

The suit banks a hard left, and despite the fact I am completely compacted inside with no room to wriggle around, the speed of the movement jolts me in all the wrong places. I let out a surprised cry of pain, followed by a long groan.

"What's that?" Happy's voice comes back. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"Shit," I say, trying to shift slightly. There's not a lot of room to do anything, but I am able to lift my arm slightly and touch my side. I'm bleeding again, like Brian thought I might. "Shit - I'm just - I don't know, Happy," I say this childishly, as if he asked who really ate the last cookie, and I stand nearby with crumbs in my hands. "I'm bleeding again."

"Okay," Happy says calmly. "You're going to be okay."

"If I pass out again…" I try to explain. "That's too many times - in one night - Happy... "

My voice trails off just shy of asking what happens if I never wake up from this one. "Can you tell - the thing - to take - it slow?"

"Not really an option, kid," Happy says. "We have medical personnel here."

It's hard to concentrate in the darkness I am submerged in, the colors of the panels blinking out and disappearing on me, then returning and feeling too bright. It's not the suit, though, it's me. My brain is firing up all kinds of wrong signals.

"You're almost here," Happy encourages. "Just hang on."

"Your blood pressure is far below the recommended average," says the AI.

Enough blows to the head and this happens. I check out - mentally, physically. Due to whatever is in the IV, I don't know that I'll remember much of this. I am barely remembering it now - I struggle to remember even getting in. I don't remember how long I've been in it. Brian and Jeff are shadows; voices that brought me out of one hell and then deposited me into something a little less hellish but still not going into a top five. Faces I remembered clearly one minute ago begin to deteriorate.

I don't know what's happening to me. There's too much lightheadedness. The panels glow icy blue and my head feels as if it is swelling like a balloon. There's a sort of body odor I can smell now - my own - a mix of sweating so much while being tortured, and the fresh blood soaking through the gauze on my chest and side. It makes me severely nauseous, and out of it.

I might be unconscious.

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 **Thank you so so much for your kind reviews! Having your feedback means the world to me :) I hate ending chapters with a POV suddenly going unconscious, but I regret it is a habit I have been unable to break, haha! But at least Peter is alive, right? RIGHT?**

 **Love you guys!**

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 **Coming Up Next:**

Peter jets off to the Avenger's complex like a sardine in a tin. A nearly dead, very upset sardine. But help awaits.


	12. Hypovolemic Shock

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Twelve: Hypovolemic Shock

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I don't... I don't know that this makes any sense. I don't make sense. It's... confusing.

I'm bleeding out at this point, I think, and wavering between dead and alive. I didn't see it coming and there wasn't any reason to.

Well, now I know. Maybe I'm the common goal if I've pissed enough people off. And I suppose I did. Because I am Spider-Man... this may be the new default. The default being… well, not alive. Which sucks.

The suit seems to come to a stop. For a moment, I imagine waking up to bright lights, and the faces of doctors and nurses. Clearly a hallucination, though, if I'm dead.

"Just hang on."

Yup, hanging…

I picture the man's face, smiling at me sickeningly. Part of me wishes to try and lift my arms up, defensively, waving away at the face and making sharp protests. I hear some cries of alarm, but I'm soon immobile, and unable to move anything further.

Worse than the darkness of the suit is the claustrophobia of not knowing where I am or who is looking down at me now. Wondering with bewilderment if I'll get to see Aunt May ever again, or Ned, or Michelle, or Liz, or Mr. Stark, or Happy…

Wondering who I am, and why the pain and fear is replaced by nothing at all.

So this is what it's like to be dead, I think. Still self aware but paralyzed to do anything about it. Capable of thinking but not speaking. Seeing shadows that belong to people trying to save me but, I think, failing at this point. Sometimes hearing voices; sometimes seeing ghosts.

"Hang on, kid. Hang on. We've got you. You're going to be okay. You just hang on."

Telling someone like Spider-Man to hang on seems a little redundant, right? I literally hang better than most. With superior strength. And webs.

"I'm right here."

This is the worst feeling of all. I wonder if I can hear voices trying to rouse me, afraid of losing me, bewildered at the lack of response, screaming my name from a long, gray expanse because they think I'm dead and their hands are shaking too hard to find a pulse. I think I see those I love around me, mourning me, and I'm dead. Ned, May, MJ. Mr. Stark and Happy. I'm attending my own funeral, Tom Sawyer style. There's a lot of people at the gravesite including...

My parents?

An out of body experience, then. Not my real funeral. They couldn't attend - they're in the ground beside me already.

I can guess what the rest are probably thinking right now, and I see it from the bird's eye view, even if they can't think past the next two seconds. The grief places things in too close of a proximity. They'll have to get over me and move on with their lives… figure out what to do with my stuff in my room…

Er, wait. Not if I'm thinking. If I'm thinking, does that make me dead? Or maybe I'm comatose. Ned found a subreddit of people having mental awareness while in a coma. Maybe I'm in a vegetative state and this is what it feels like.

I feel like I can smell a copious amount of fresh blood on the outside instead of the inside where it's supposed to be, freshly pouring from too many wounds until my clothes are soaked crimson and slimy with no discernible place to try and staunch the flow. But that doesn't mean they don't try, cutting up my newly returned suit and trying to keep me from bleeding out.

Sorry about the suit, guys! It's not like I just got it back or anything…

I don't know what's happening to me. Are they saving me, or is it too late? Am I hovering in and out of consciousness only to hear myself dying? Soft and falling around my shoulders is a cloud I can't penetrate. The air is too thick, pungent with antiseptic. I am getting carted away in it and the colors don't match. Or maybe I'm just having a really wild fever dream.

Aunt May is there, holding my hand.

"Hi, sweetheart," she whispers, bending down and kissing my forehead.

There's smiling at someone, and then there's an inability to do so, so you sleep at them instead. I respond to her comfort by sleeping, again. And again.

"You're safe. You're going to be okay. Just enjoy your rest."

I'd like to respond and say thank-you, but I just can't right now.

It's not that enjoyable, I'd like to quip, but I can't speak. But the sentiment is nice.

I can't be completely dead, not with some sense of self-awareness; unless I arrived in the afterlife - which would be a surprising but not unpleasant surprise. There's enough people I would like to see again.

And just when I start to think I could see my parents again; maybe ushering me in like they do in old movies, I realize I am staring at a pattern.

A pattern of wood grain.

The stained, fake kind on a paneled cupboard door.

I feel so woozy.

It's a cupboard under a sink.

The sink is under a window.

A big window, with rain slashing against it with unnecessary force.

Huh - so - that's a real window. Real weather. This is a real setting. This is not a hallucination, a fever dream, a coma.

So I breathe -

But -

There's something thick and plastic shoved down my throat, igniting every gag reflex I possess.

I feel like I'm choking. I throw out a hand -

Hey, I have a HAND! Woohoo! And grasp the railing of a hospital bed, white-knuckles gripping at the sudden pain that floods my body. The other hand begins clawing at my face, trying to pull the thingy off. What is in my MOUTH right now? Why is it going down my throat? Why does it feel like I'm being face-hugged and about to give birth to an alien parasite?

There's alarms going off loudly in my room.

Breathe, Spider-Man, breathe, I tell myself - and I am having no trouble doing so, only the panic is telling me that I can't.

I try to focus on the colors of the room, hoping to momentarily distract myself with the concepts of light, shadow, pigment, highlights - to prove this room is real. That I'm not dead. It's not another hallucination

My peripheral vision suddenly floods with people.

Trying to focus isn't helping me; in fact it's making me feel more panicky. I'm hacking and spontaneously gagging into the tube, which does exactly what's supposed to do when someone is unconscious, but once someone is awake it feels as if it blocks your air pipe. Even though that is the exact opposite of what it is doing.

Tears of fear and stress are freely streaming from my eyes, my overheated body trembling while I clutch at the straps around my head.

"Careful, Mr. Parker, I've got that," a doctor gently begins undoing the straps, and a nurse or two both jump in and push my arms down into the blanket. "Don't worry, hold still."

They withdraw the breathing tube, and it burns all the way up.

The nurses mumble sincere apologies for not getting the tube out before I woke up, that my healing powers made me wake up sooner than they expected.

They pat arms and legs and ask questions I don't remember three seconds after they ask it.

I'm in a thin cotton hospital gown, under a thin blanket. Doctor so-and-so is urging plenty of rest and I'll be on my feet in a couple of days, patting the bed and abruptly leaving the room. I'm left with several nurses, all busy, content with an IV to do it's work when my throat begs to differ. One nurse is looking at the monitor and the other takes my temperature and one is getting me another blanket and not one of them seems to remember I just had a plastic tube in my mouth.

My heads too heavy to lift off the pillow but I try anyways.

"Huh," I say hoarsely. "Heh?"

"What's that?"

The suit? Where's my spider-man suit? If I'm in the ER does that mean the whole staff knows who I am? Are there reporters waiting outside? Did Super-Villain with a badge already force his way into May's apartment and kill her?

"Waheh?" is all I manage to choke out. My throat hurts to badly it feels like I took a gulp of lava to try and quench my thirst. I can't use consonants.

"Here's some water, there you go." One of the nurses, a plump black woman in lavender scrubs, helps me drink a styrofoam cup of water.

"Do you want another one?" she asks when I've finished.

I nod fervently.

"All right, sweetheart, here you go."

I drink that too, and get some of the water on my face. Oh, wait, not water. Just crying again. Wow. Can't seem to make the waterworks stop. Maybe I should be Water-Man. No, that sounds stupid. Ned would literally slap me.

I touch my throat and feel thick gauze covering part of it.

"Aw, you poor thing, it's okay, you've been through a lot. You just let it all out." The nurse rubs my back and tucks a kleenex box between my elbow and the bed-rail.

"Wha - wha - happa," I try to say, again certain consonants unavailable to me with my throat still on fire. "Wheht...?

"I don't know I am the best one to try and explain what happened..."

"Pleahh?" I moan. "Wheh am I?"

"Where are you?" the nurse repeats. "Is that it?"

I nod heavily.

"You're safe," she assures me. Not what I meant. She smiles comfortingly, patting the blanket again. "Spider-Man will live to fight another bad guy,"

I blink. So... they all know then. That's it. She knows I'm Spider-Man. I'm done.

"Eh-ry-one know?" I ask.

"Well... just the med team, honey." The nurse shrugs. "It's part of the job. But... you don't have to worry about that. We've all signed non-disclosures, but once you sign the Accords it won't really matter I guess? But for now, hon, everyone here at the Avengers complex is still keeping up this whole secret identity thing." She notices my worried expression. "Don't worry. You haven't been outed, if that's what you're wondering."

I'm in upstate New York.

Not a hospital.

I'm at the Avengers facility.

Not a hospital.

"Plus, who would we tell?" she shrugs.

I'm actually... safe.

"Ahn May?"

"She'll be back in to see you once the doctor has given the okay."

Because if I'm dying, my mentality fills in the blanks, someone has to break the news to her. It's a sobering thought, followed quickly by a sudden chill, and gaping yawn with a sore, bruised chin.

I can't... stay awake anymore.

"Woop," says the nurse, catching my head and setting my cup aside. "Down we go. Nicely done, darling. You just relax. You'll feel better soon."

I'm in a dazed state of consciousness. I'm only awake enough to answer one more question about pain levels and and then I doze off again.

This has nothing to do with smoke inhalation, or lacerated skin slowly knitting itself back together in double-time.

This is pure teenage exhaustion. After everything with the Vulture, and Aunt May, the fire, and then the torture... I'm just so tired. I just want to sleep for a million years and play some X-Box with Ned and then sleep an extra five hundred years just in case the first million was only a nap.

In a dream, I'm being tortured for more than a few hours - a few days. A week. A month. It never ends. My super healing has made me such an exciting experiment that they decide to see how long I can last, which in the dream, is forever. They give me a day to heal and then start the whole process over again…

A knife at my throat, something bright blinding my eyes…

Which I realize, oddly, is sunlight. Current sunlight.

It's morning.

Ascending into the land of the living yet again, my senses give a sort of hushed warning that someone has entered the room while I slept. I blink a few times, still not awake, trying to focus on the dark shadow in the chair next to my bed. I jolt ever-so slightly when I realize it's a person, trying to figure out what is real and what isn't.

Tony Stark is sitting beside me, pressing his pointer fingers together in a church steeple at his mouth, a worried reaction to my jolt to wrench myself from the nightmare losing its grip on me.

"Are you awake or do you just sleep with your eyes open?" Mr. Stark asks abruptly. "Otherwise this is very uncomfortable."

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Thank you so much for all of your engaging and excited reviews! This one is a short one, so I am NOT going to wait as long to post chapter 13. I might do it Sunday or Monday (tomorrow or day after)

Love to all!

...

 **Coming Up Next:**

It's that tough love moments everyone loves between the worlds greatest heroes... a perturbed Iron Man and a sleepy Spider-Man.


	13. Iron Man's Bedside Manner

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Thirteen: Iron-Man's Bedside Manner

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I take a deep breath and blink a few times to get my bearings. "Still sleeping," I lie, holding up my hand in front of my face. I wiggle my fingers. I still have fingers, that's nice.

Mr. Stark wiggles his fingers back, then stops. "Oh, you're not waving."

"I'm testing them," I say, my throat still raspy.

"The finger bones were the first things to start healing," he replies, matter-of-factly. "They made little popping sounds. Very disconcerting." He looks down at his own fingers in mild disgust and returns them to his lap, and can no longer meet my gaze.

Silence descends the room. I look around, briefly, hardly able to believe what I'm

seeing. It's morning. I'm safe. I'm safe here… for now, if the man did not use… what I said…

I probably outed this place, somehow, gave something away. Relinquished under pressure. Failed at keeping secrets. I know I did.

"Mr. Stark..." I begin. "I'm so, so sorry..."

His head jerks up. "What the hell are you apologizing for?"

"I said things - u-u-under pressure, I mean..."

"You mean torture."

"I guess," I whisper. "Things about the Avengers facility - security and checkpoints - to th-the guy who..."

"Stop," he holds up a hand.

I shut up instantly.

"One, you were either lying very well, or severely misinformed. None of the details you supplied were harmful to Avenger operations. None. Zip. Nada. Understand?"

"But I said there was a gate, I think, and..." I pause. "Wait... how do you know what I said?" I feel like I have a vague memory of why… or how… I don't know. Karen was offline. But she did say something about keeping the data internally…

"All of the video feed from the baby monitor program from the last twelve hours were uploaded to the main server once we plugged in what was left of the data chip in your suit," Mr. Stark answers, suddenly standing up and walking over to the window, glancing out distractedly.

"All of it?" I ask. "Since... yesterday afternoon?"

Did they see everything?

"From the time you left the rooftop." He returns to the bedside and absently pats the blanket, arranging it slightly and tucking it back under my arm.

"Kid," he says, his voice thick. Mr. Stark suddenly chokes up and can't finish his sentence, but only for a moment. He pretends he needs to pull his sunglasses out of his breast pocket and polishes them briefly.

"Did you watch it?" I ask.

"I tried," Mr. Stark says heavily. "I tried. I couldn't. I have guys still combing through it so that we can use..."

"Use for what?" I ask.

Mr. Stark looks offended that I'd even ask. "Mr. Parker," he says, "We can nail this guy. I promise you that... and without compromising your identity. We have his face and the video evidence."

The thought of this guy being out on the streets as a police officer of New York makes me sick. I grimace and look away, and can't bring myself to answer. I can't think about it right now... if I do, it's a dark hole I may not emerge from again. I could just take care of it myself.

"You shouldn't have had to go through that." Mr. Stark says, his voice hitching slightly because of threatening tears, disguising them as a cough. "That one is on me, kid."

I remember his words on the ferry. If you die, I feel like that's on me.

I guess almost-dying counts too.

Mr. Stark abruptly leaves my bedside and returns to the window, glancing out. He clears his throat loudly and chokes back whatever emotions he's feeling about his protege going through a hellish experience. He taps the glass a moment.

"Now there's something you don't see every day," he mumbles. "Vision running laps. He looks ridiculous. He's still wearing his cape."

Silence falls for a moment. I can feel Mr. Stark's struggle to speak but worried he's going to say something wrong. I have that worry, too.

"How'd you find me?" I ask wearily. "My coms were out. My AI was dead."

"Don't you remember calling Happy on a paramedic's phone?" he asks, his tone sad.

I don't reply. Not for lack of words, only energy. I shake my head. The last thing I remember… the man screaming in my ear. And then leaving me to die.

Those memories override the others. I think I can picture the faces of two others - a paramedic or two, maybe firefighters… by the ambulance… but no, that was earlier, at the fire. It's all mixed up. I was unconscious far too many times in succession. Luckily whatever brain damage I received that might kill another person only left me with lapses and a migraine.

"I don't… really… remember," I reply slowly.

"We're doing some... upgrading," Mr. Stark goes on, "Satellite upgrading. I want any daylight charging up a boost to the signal's reach that only kicks in with systems down... so even the lead-lined walls of a monster's basement can't keep us out of the loop."

I feel my heart slam in my chest.

Somehow the thought of the walls and the basement again…

"No matter where you are or what you're doing, you'll be able to call. That's what we're working on. You could be flying through space and still get in touch. Not that you'll ever fly in space - ever - but - you know what I mean."

I don't want to think about flying through space. That'll probably never happen to a guy like me. Vision, and Thor, maybe. Not me.

"This will never happen again," Mr. Stark promises solemnly.

But I really don't want to think about darkness, either.

"Thank you," I choke out. I can't breathe. It's too… hard. I struggle to sit up slightly, just so I can bend at the waist and keep my lungs elevated. I can't lay back on a pillow right now, I feel like I'm suffocating.

"Don't thank me yet. Or... just don't thank me." Mr. Stark shakes his head. "I still feel responsible. Okay? I'm going to mull this over for awhile. I don't just feel responsible. I am responsible for you. I won't let this happen again."

My heart monitor lets out a warning series of beeps. Mr. Stark walks briskly over to it and looks at it. "Hey," he says, turning back and looking at me. "What are you doing?"

He asks me this as if I'm strapping on a pair of roller skates.

"I'm... nothing?" I lie. "I'm sitting up?"

Having a panic attack?

"Looks like you're running laps with Vision. Stop that. Take a deep breath."

"Sorry," I say, leaning forward further and lacing my hands behind my head, just shy of bending forward and pressing my forehead into the blanket. I follow his instruction and take a deep breath. My breathing is… loud. Like crying is sort of mixed in with the breathing.

"The apologies are really going to have to stop now," Mr. Stark comes back to the bed. I feel his hand leave his pocket, hovering over my shoulder, some sort of inner debate happening about what is appropriate touch and what is appropriate distance. He settles for a large hand on my shoulder and pats it kindly.

"Let me hear, like, four more deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Let's be deliberate with our actions. God, I sound like Pepper." He sighs. "Okay? Can we try that? Deep breaths for me."

"Yes," I respond tightly. This is embarrassing. A panic attack in front of Tony Stark. A mentor. An Avenger. One of the Heroes of New York.

I'm relieved to feel the air coming through my nose. My nose is healing up. I'm sure it looks terrible, but it's working again. Breathe in, breathe out.

"How's that feel?" Mr. Stark asks.

"Better," I gasp, returning right to the breathing exercise. In, and out, until I feel like the breathing is slow enough. Calmer. I'm embarrassed at how long it takes, but Mr. Stark, for once, seems patient with me. He stands there, just as calmly, and doesn't rush me.

"Good boy," he says quietly.

"I'm still scared," I whisper.

"Come again?"

"I'm… still scared. I realize that I'm…" deep breath, "Here and safe, but, I don't feel like it. I feel like I'm stuck in last night. This is just a nice dream."

"I know there's no point in telling you not to be scared," Mr. Stark says comfortingly. "But would a dream have THIS?"

Mr. Stark suddenly leans down and grabs something off the floor, and sets something huge and heavy on the bed.

I slowly look up. It's a huge gift basket. I mean, huge. Like there's fruit and flowers and a few toys inside. What the hell?

"What is THAT?" I exclaim.

There's even a stuffed, plushy Hulk toy sticking out of the top.

"Here," Mr. Stark says loudly, "Hold this." He takes it out and tucks it in my arms. "Mr. Parker, meet Dr. Banner. Dr. Banner, this is Peter."

I'm sitting there holding a toy stuffed Hulk and it's so ridiculous I let out a loud laugh.

"Smile," Mr. Stark takes a picture on his cellphone, then slyly glances at the monitor. My heart rate is back to normal. "I'll send this to your Aunt. She's downstairs. Did we tell you that already?"

I don't honestly remember. "She's okay? I mean, aside from the usual worry. She's okay."

"She's good." Mr. Stark fiddles around his phone for a second and then clicks it off and tucks it back in his breast pocket. "She was here when you woke up the first few times."

"I've been awake before now?"

"Says May and your doc."

"I don't remember any of it."

"Happy just made her go to the cafe for some food a few minutes ago."

I am still casually holding the Hulk toy and I am perfectly okay with that. But the thought that Aunt May is here - in this building - fills me with both a feeling of overwhelming warmth, and also embarrassment… and nervousness.

"I'll need to have a chat with her," Mr. Stark says, more to himself than to me.

I feel like I'll never have a normal chat again. What exactly do I even SAY to her?

"I've dealt with panic attacks before, you know," Mr. Stark remarks casually, awkwardly timed as if he had been trying to not bring it up and failed. "PTSD and everything. There's help for it. We'll get it for you."

I open my mouth in surprise. "I... uh..."

"It's natural. Don't worry about it."

"I mean... you never seem panicked about anything. You're always so... cool?" I lost what I was trying to say half-way through and ended up sounding like a fanboy. Really nice, Peter.

Mr. Stark points at himself in a who? Mua? type of gesture, and then waves it off.

"No," he answers, "Not at all. Turns out, surprisingly, if you fly through a portal into space with an alien army and the portal starts to close behind you - not exactly a boost for mental health. Nor does it look good on a psych eval. But I wear it well, don't I?"

"I... guess so?"

"Huh. Sometimes your honesty hurts." Mr. Stark smiles at the gift basket, opens the card, and shows it briefly to me before slamming it shut.

Feel Better Soon x

Happy Hogan

I smile and wince, a flare-up of pain where I had been stabbed... everywhere. There's a bandage on my forearm, my neck, sutures in my side between my ribs, a brace around my hand and wrist, two IVs sticking out of me... there's even bandages on my feet. What the hell is wrong with my FEET?

Oh, burning building. Broken glass. Stabbed in the foot. Right.

I put a hand to my stab wound in the side and push it slightly, accidentally making myself moan. "Hmmmph," I breathe carefully. "Still... tender."

"Yeah - this whole hyper-healing is going to at least keep you here another day. Or two," Mr. Stark says. "Of course any other person would be dead. So take the day. You've called in sick to school already... the flu is rough this time of year."

There's a pause when I am taking stock of my injuries. I ache so thoroughly all over I feel as if I have been dragged behind a high-speed van. Now that I've actually done such a thing, I can make the comparison.

"Thanks for getting me," I say quietly. "Really. Thank you."

Mr. Stark blinks rapidly. "Yeah, kid. Anytime." He coughs loudly again. "I am ... going to hit the vending machine in the lobby. You want anything? Nutter butters? M&Ms. You seem like a Snickers guy. Or maybe that's just Banner. He's not himself when he's hungry."

I like sandwiches, but…

"I don't think I could eat just yet," I answer. "I feel like..."

"Sorry, bad joke. We have some jello on short order for you."

"Mr. Stark… I feel like I'd be dead if it wasn't for you," I say quickly. "Just... so you know. I'm grateful."

"May raised a good one," he responds, patting my leg.

He walks quickly out of the room.

I gingerly lower myself back into the pillow and take a deep breath. Still holding the Hulk stuffy, I find myself drifting off again. Partially dozing where I feel like I can still see the light behind my eyelids but not exactly getting participation points.

I'm half asleep when Mr. Stark returns, and I start to shift slightly to try and sit up again, my eyes still shut and starting to shift into a deeper breath. My brain is squealing at me to wake the heck up - Iron Man is in my room! How did I end up a guy that's just casually hanging out with Tony Stark in a recovery room?

"No, no, it's okay," Mr. Stark pushes my shoulder gently down. "Go back to sleep. I've got some work to do. Just get some rest. We'll talk again in a bit."

I turn over and take a deep breath. I feel the blanket shift closer and get tucked around my shoulder.

Tony Stark is tucking me IN? Like a toddler?

It's embarrassing.

Yet…

It's less chilly, so, I won't complain.

I feel as if a gray curtain is tugged across my vision, never fully settling into black. Just a brief brush, like painting, and then wiped away again.

I twitch again, waking myself up, and glancing sharply at Mr. Stark. He is sitting quietly at my bedside and flips absently through a magazine.

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask groggily.

"Uh… only four minutes and thirty seconds," Mr. Stark glances at his fancy watch. "Go back to sleep, if you want."

"I feel better now," I say, but I still make no move to leave my comfortable position in bed. It's the first time I don't feel anything at all - no pain, let alone my body, period. I feel like I'm made of cotton candy, little to no substance at all.

"Better, huh?" he repeats.

"Tell me about who did this to me," I say, almost without actually meaning it. The question… fell out of me. I don't know that I even want to know yet.

Mr. Stark tosses the magazine on the small rotating table by the bed with a disgusted huff. "Look," he says, trying not to sound frustrated, "We don't have to drudge up everything that's happened, yet… not till you're up for it."

"Just… the basics," I falter. "I'm sick of wondering…why..."

"Ah. I see. Well - ah - before he ripped your mask off, we have a clear image of his face. Later he tells us he's from Hell's Kitchen. Facial recognition did the rest. He's a Hell's Kitchen police officer."

As he explains, the memories of his taunts come back. It's pretty much what I knew already. I was hoping for the why… what was his motivation to hurt me?

It's bad enough knowing he's a police office nearby. But that was easily figured out. I wish someone could explain why he would want to hurt me - what was so important to him that it made him kidnap and torture me?

"He thinks… he's untouchable," I whisper, trying to recall the last things the man said to me.

"Well maybe you can't march into the precinct and demand justice," Mr. Stark replies, "but your lawyer can."

I roll my eyes and look away, fighting the sensation of panic fluttering in my stomach. Something about Mr. Stark accidentally repeating the same words as my torturer leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth. "I don't have a lawyer," I mutter.

"Yeah, but the Avengers do. The best damn lawyers in the country - don't you think I'd be prepared for this sort of thing? Defense, insurance, the shit we have to worry about. Calls coming in about how Captain America is being sued for bumping into a vehicle and causing some damage." Mr. Stark narrows his eyes. "Usually it's ordinary citizens strapped for cash and maybe they can't afford to repair their car. I'm may be rich but I'm not an idiot. We settle out of court and get them the money they need to repair whatever damage one of our street-battles have caused and then move on to the next one."

"But this is," I pause. "This is different."

"How different?" Mr. Stark looks incredulous.

"I'm not a car," I reply with a sigh.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Mr. Stark says sternly. "That's not what I meant at all. It means I can help. Let me help you. Get it? I can send my best guy in there. We press charges for attempted murder. He gets arrested and at least he's off the streets for a few weeks while we haggle the rest." He pauses and drums his fingers loudly on the arm of the faux-wood waiting chair.

I shrug. "I don't know how any of this works."

"You don't have to. That's what the grown-ups are for."

My turn to narrow my eyes. I feel like we're steering into the same dangerous territory that made him take away my suit to teach me a lesson.

The problem with being Tony Stark is that he is... Tony Stark. A public figure. An outed superhero. He's got the Accords to worry about. Now everything goes by the book and under supervision of the UN. Everything is so public. If he makes this a thing, and pursues the thing, and makes the thing into a big deal... then that's exactly what it would be. STARK of all people pressing charges against New York's Finest in a neighborhood known for its corruption is not going to give me - or Aunt May - any privacy.

My anonymity would be gone forever. I'd have to drop out of school, get homeschooled… I can kiss any plans on a future job goodbye… That was the whole reason I avoided joining the Avengers a few days ago.

Days ago.

I wasn't ready yet. I'm a kid, and I just want to help Queens for awhile. Bigger battles will come my way. Worse people than an NYPD officer, that's for sure. I should just save my strength for those fights.

"No," I say.

"Okay, so this weird little habit that you have of telling me no?" Mr. Stark wags his finger in my direction. "I don't like it. I am not accustomed to being told no." He gingerly sits on the edge of my bed and looks at me questioningly. "What's with the no? Why this time?"

"Choosing my battles?" I offer.

"Nope, not good enough."

"The same reason I did not join the Avengers a few days ago," I whisper. "I'm still... the friendly neighborhood Spider Man? Not Peter Parker seeking retribution. Maybe someday, but..."

"Someday may be too late."

"Maybe," I shrug. "But... I don't want this fight. Not like that. And not now. Maybe never."

"Huh," Mr. Stark hums, getting off the bed. "Let me get this straight - you're done with the evil cop with a price on your brain. Zip. You just want to pack up and forget it happened."

"Sure - I guess, I don't know," I drag my hands through my hair and rest them on the back of my neck. "I'm confused."

"Hm..." Mr. Stark says again. "Either it's the pain medication talking or..."

"What?"

"Oh, you know, just, yet another one of my plans dashed to pieces by you, deliberately. I don't like it."

He returns to his chair beside the bed. "Here's my thought on this, try to keep up," he rests his chin on his fist. "What's holding you back? Is it really your secret identity? Or is it fear?"

"No..."

"Before you answer that, think of it this way. There was a study done about people in captivity - even when the door is unlocked, they don't leave. Afraid of getting caught outside. You've seen that?"

I blink a few times, wondering where he would be going with this. "Sure?"

"Are you letting this guy go scot-free because you're afraid of what happens when you confront him and taking care of the problem?"

"I don't know?" I exclaim, getting frustrated. "Maybe? Or maybe I just don't have any answers and I don't know that I ever will. And maybe I don't want to do something I'll regret by default just because I can't think of a better idea."

"Hmph," Mr. Stark grumpily looks away. "And I don't suppose I can change your mind."

I shrug again, and suddenly I notice there's someone standing in the now-open door.

Aunt May is standing there, disheveled and horrified. "Okay, seriously?" she bursts. "How many times do I have to walk in on you and say what the FU…"

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As promised, I did NOT wait a whole week before posting chapter 13! This is because I LOVE you guys (hugs). I am so pleased you are enjoying the story, even though I posted chapter 12 really late last night, there were already reviews waiting for me this morning! I feel the love and support from here, thank you.

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 **Coming Up Next:**

Well, it's definitely time for Aunt May and Mr. Stark to have a serious conversation. Hush, Peter, the grown ups are talking!


	14. Adult Conversations

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Fourteen: Adult Conversations

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Mr. Stark and I stare at my unexpectedly present aunt.

"You promised you'd text me if he woke up," Aunt May exclaims.

"I sent a picture," Mr. Stark replies. This is the only time I think I've ever heard his voice falter slightly. I've seen plenty of bravado disappear in front of May, but usually it's mine.

"Didn't get it," she says quickly. She walks to the side of the hospital bed, her face softening. "Hi, baby," she begins, and then chokes on a sob that she did not realize was coming. She covers her mouth with one hand.

"I'm sorry... if I worried you," I try to apologize.

"Shut up," she says, putting her arms around me and tucking her chin over the top of my head, tears streaming down her face quietly. Unable to really hold it back.

"Mrs. Parker," Mr. Stark begins.

Aunt May pulls back slightly and holds up a finger. "Mrs. Parker was my mother-in-law. That's going to need to stop now. It's May. Just May. Thanks." She resumes hugging me, definitely ignoring Mr. Stark.

Happy suddenly appears at the door as well, and makes a nervous gesture, pointing to the hall behind him as if to communicate it was time to leave.

Mr. Stark makes an annoyed gesture back, holding his hands out like he's asking why. Happy's face becomes admonished with wide eyes both stern and impatient, and Stark relents, stalking out of the room and stepping into the hall.

Happy peers in one last time, noting the get well basket. "Good!" he exclaims. "It arrived! I was actually on my way to go pick up your aunt and had to order it from the gift shop by phone so I really had no idea what would happen there."

Typical Happy. He didn't know if I was going to arrive at the facility dead or alive, and he ordered a gift basket.

It's endearing how his cynical attitude doesn't match what he believes at all.

Mr. Stark's hands began to tug Happy out by the sleeve.

Aunt May pulls back and looks at me. "Are you feeling all right?" she starts looking at tubes and monitors and taking stock of bandages and bruises.

"I'm okay…"

"You look like you can stay conscious for more than 30 seconds. I am sorry I wasn't right here beside you when you stayed awake this time."

"No, no… I'm… glad you got some food," I falter.

She's looking at me as if expecting me to grow horns and levitate.

"So… am I grounded?" I smile.

She levels her stare as if to say "Too soon." Instead, she fiddles with the blanket edge.

"Just kidding," I amend quickly.

She looks away, whispering, "You were at none of the hospitals I had started to call when you didn't come home after school like you promised."

"I am so, so sorry," I answer, stricken.

"It's okay," she says soothingly, stroking the top of my head. "It's okay… I'm not… scolding you. Not at all."

I don't respond.

She sighs before continuing. "I pulled my head out of my ass long enough to realize that I could save time and energy by calling Stark. Then I realized I don't have the country's richest man's personal cell number. That's going to need to change, by the way. I called his company and I got through to the Stark Industries customer service line. Can you believe that? Customer SERVICE! I had to leave a message."

Part of me wants to laugh. A chuckle turns into a slight shudder. It seems like whatever I might find amusing is eclipsed by the fact that any moment of irony in all of this was caused by the fact that at the moment it happened, I was being tortured in a dark basement.

May, apparently, has a similar thought, though without the particulars. She sobers and wipes her eyes quickly. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispers, "It took - what - a day? Post-bail? - for me to get a call that shook me," she hit herself in the chest, hard, "Shook me, to my core. I thought I'd throw up - no, I did. I did. I got a call back from Mr. Stark saying you were beaten nearly to death and Mr. Hogan was going to pick me up and then I was taking a brief helicopter ride to the fuh - effing Avengers facility. Where you were still unconscious."

I shrug helplessly. What can I say?

"I thought I could do it," she repeats. "I don't know that I can."

"This won't be uh... daily thing," I try. It sounds ridiculous. "This is an anomaly. I swear."

Is it?

"What - shit happening?" May throws her hands in the air. "That sounds like exactly the kind of thing that you'll get mixed up in. Wearing a mask and doing… all this."

"Yeah, well, the torturing part came as a surprise," I reply, a little too harshly, I think.

Aunt May's face so expressionless that she might as well be frozen in time, as if I was suddenly gifted with super-speed and running around her in circles.

"Peter," she asks carefully, "Can you… tell more about what happened?"

"Just a… bad night," I shrug again. "You don't… want to know."

"Okay," Mr. Stark stands in the doorway again, arms crossed over his chest. "That's enough. Mrs. Parker - sorry, May - I need to speak with you. In the hall, please."

I open my mouth to make some sort of protest - if she can be spared from the details...

"Mr. Parker, if you don't mind," Mr. Stark cuts me off, "I'd like to borrow your lovely aunt for an adult conversation."

Aunt May looks so offended that I almost - almost - laugh.

"You're mucking it up," Mr. Stark says to me. "We're not going to play this game. As long as you are under the age of eighteen, if something like this happens, your aunt is going to stay informed."

Aunt May is flummoxed by the flirtatious Tony Stark facade slipping away to reveal the Iron-Man that he ordinarily is; commanding authority and transparency by his mere presence. With a slightly panicked look at me, she follows Mr. Stark's gesture to the hall and steps out with him.

The door closes behind them.

I concentrate efforts on listening to anything except the voices rising and falling in the hall. I try to keep the super-hearing down to a minimum, but I just can't tune them out. It's impossible.

"I'll need you to surmise this for me," Aunt May says tiredly. "Between the doctor's clinical explanations and Peter's non-answers, I'm having a hard time figuring out how exactly he went from a nightly round of neighborhood watch-dog to being beaten nearly to death."

"You may want to sit down, then," Stark says.

"I'm fine."

"Ah - okay. SO. Peter was abducted some time Tuesday evening and tortured for approximately four, five hours or so - from what we could tell from the tape - "

"THERE'S A FUCKING TAPE OF THIS? FROM WHERE?"

"May, please. Hear me out. His suit comes equipped with a monitoring system that helps us track his whereabouts - "

"Congratulations Stark Industries Incorporated United Federation of I don't give a fuck!" May's voice is steadily rising into a pure rage I've only ever experienced a few times. "So you've been tracking his whereabouts and yet MY BOY - MY BOY is in there looking awful and somehow your system didn't work to prevent that?"

"I know you're angry - I am too," Mr. Stark's voice rises as well. "I'm pissed. System flaw - his AI was shattered by an electromagnetic blast, and the mechanisms crushed. We're going to figure out how to make it immune to that. It won't happen again."

"What," Aunt May replies mockingly, "Because you're putting your 'best people' on it, right?"

"Yes!"

"And who might THAT be?"

"Me."

Silence.

"I'll be personally upgrading the suit. This won't happen again. I swear to you. I... swear it."

More silence.

The sounds of someone sliding down the wall - oh, God. Aunt May!

I am so, so sorry for putting you through this...

Aunt May is sitting on the floor now, hugging her knees. In a strange show of solidarity, I hear Mr. Stark thump against the wall and join her.

"Now hear me out," he says, kindly but strictly. "Let me preface this with he's going to be okay. He's lucky. He has some sort of supernatural, miraculous, gifted, mutated, inhuman - whatever the kids are calling it these days - ability to heal quickly. That saved him. Not us. We got to him. And it could have been worse if we didn't. But he's going to be okay. Eventually."

I can hear her crying. "Thank you for helping my baby," she says, almost so quietly I can't even hear her. "But he wouldn't have even been in this situation if he wasn't... caught up in all this. Since you started him on this."

"That's unfair. You know it is. He was doing this long before I came along. Ever since..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she says bitterly. "Since my husband was murdered. Thanks for the reminder."

"I accept what blame that I can, but I can't do more than what I am able," Mr. Stark says, brutally and honestly. "But this was a horrible, horrible thing that happened to him. The responsibility of this thing lies with the person who did this to him."

She lets out a moan; I can feel the air shimmer with her hiding her face in her hands for a moment, trying to blot beneath her eyes and cool her burning cheeks. She probably feels a migraine on the way. "Back to the torture," she whispers. "I just… I need to know why this happened to him. He clearly wasn't going to be forthcoming with me. I hate that."

"It seems as if this person was collecting information for another party, stocking up on as many factoids as he could concerning Spider-Man, myself, and the rest of the Avengers... his main area of focus seemed to be this facility. How to get in, if needed. He's... disturbingly cavalier about the whole thing. He acknowledges several times that he's just a little guy working for a much bigger guy and he has no personal stakes in the process. Except for the disgusting fact he appeared to be enjoying the torturing."

Aunt May makes a sound. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"I'm sorry," Mr. Stark says hastily. "That was my own conjecture, and unnecessary. I apologize. Do you… need…"

Silence.

"Just give me a minute," May's voice - haggard, thick. The sounds of deep breaths, in and out again. Not much different from my own panic earlier.

More silence. I hear the unmistakable clank of a vending machine.

"Here," Mr. Stark says. "Have some water. Take as long as you need."

I realize I'm holding my breath. I let it out, slowly, painfully. I'm starting to feel sore again.

"Who hurt him?" Aunt May asks. "Doc couldn't tell me. All he could do was list Peter's injuries like a fucking grocery list."

"One of New York's Finest, apparently. A beat cop from Hell's Kitchen."

"Yes, but who... I mean, how do we even know all this...? Reports from a team of voyeauristic yahoos you keep on hand to view footage from a monitor in my boy's superhero costume?!"

"In a sense, yes. And we get a clear image of his face."

Silence again, I can almost feel the upheaval of each breath it takes for her to stay calm.

"Give me his name."

"His name is - wait. Not yet. I need to make something clear first." Mr. Stark shakes his head. "I know that look. I sure it would be a noble attempt at revenge - but he's a well trained cop, and working for someone worse. You'd be dead before you'd even try."

"Give - me - his - name."

"Hear me out. We're doing this by the book now - you understand? I signed the accords. Remember?"

"What does that have to do with this?"

"I give you his name when you…"

"Sign some sort of top secret Avengers document that makes me promise never to track him down and kill him for what he did to my baby and if I do you'll sue me for more than I could make in three lifetimes? Lovely."

"No. I was going to ask you to promise," Mr. Stark sighs.

A beat. I can't imagine what sort expressions they are making at each other right now.

"I promise."

"Thank you. Here's his name." A crinkle of paper. "This is the police report we filled out on his behalf."

"This is him?" May asks.

I strain to eavesdrop, but she doesn't say his name. Why I wished to hear it…but not ask myself... I have no idea.

"Yes," Mr. Stark says. "We have his name. Video proof. Everything we need, except…"

Suddenly my heart is filled with a sort of burning sensation…

I have to know who this is.

Not just that.

I have to remember EVERYTHING that happened last night…

"Peter didn't sign this," May says in surprise, flipping the paper over, checking the other side, and flipping it back again. "Why didn't he sign this?"

"I gave Mr. Parker the opportunity to take the next step here - and press charges within the boundaries of the law - and he opted not to."

A pause. I'm sure she's giving him a deathly glare.

"I know, I don't know why either."

"Oh, we'll just see about that," Aunt May growls. "That's not his call. He's a child - he's my child!"

"He's actually a very, very stubborn young man." Mr. Stark sighs. "We can't force him to sign this. You know that."

"He'll sign it if I tell him to."

"Or," Mr. Stark says firmly, "You tell him, and he doesn't."

A sigh. "I can't force him. Even if I beg him to. It doesn't matter. Not after what he's been through."

"I don't mean to... cause any pain," Mr. Stark says kindly, "His stubbornness made for a much longer and traumatic event than he should have endured. I don't know how. He was very brave, and he didn't give vital information away despite the interrogation... techniques. A weaker man would have done worse, and sooner."

I feel panic rising in me again, flashbacks threaten to blot out their voices. My heart monitor lets out a warning beep.

Then another.

I cover my ears and bury my face in my blanket. I lace my fingers behind my head again and use my elbows to try and block out Mr. Stark's voice. I need the pressure of white noise. I need to not feel overheated. I need the static to stop.

Apparently Mr. Stark's team of "yahoos" as Aunt May called them hadn't mentioned the part in the footage yet where I gave away my name. They probably assumed that I already signed the Accords and it wasn't noteworthy to them when I said my name.

In my weakest moment... in the worst of them. The blade poised at the corner of my eye.

You don't need an eye, do you? what happens if you lose them both?

My own name.

What happens if i shove this into your brain?

I didn't want to say my name -

Aunt May was the one I thought of when I did it -

It wasn't really my name so much as it was the names of my parents. Of Aunt May and Uncle Ben. Ben and my father - brothers. Reunited in an afterlife if there is one. My grandparents, long dead. The name that was left of them - the only thing I had. But it was Aunt May's safety now, tying back to her was exactly what I wanted to avoid. Protecting her was the most important thing.

"Peter," I had sobbed. "P-Parker. Parker."

It's only a matter of time before this comes out. When Mr. Stark finds out if he doesn't know already.

When the world finds out.

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Dearest readers,

I can only APOLOGIZE greatly for the ridiculous pause between postings! you deserve better than that and I am SO sorry! Life totally took over (and my laptop was running so slowly it was hard to get anything done).

Well, as you can see, I'm back in the game, I have a new laptop so NO MORE CRAZY FREEZINGS, and will be back to bringing you fun and dramatic content!

Love to all,

Pip

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 **Coming Up Next:** Peter sneaks out of bed and wanders the facility at night. But what is he up to?


	15. A Sneaky Mission

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Fifteen: A Sneaky Mission

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When Aunt May and Mr. Stark return to the recovery room after their chat, I try to give some semblance of not having eavesdropped everything they said in the hallway.

I'm lying on my side, looking at my broken wrist and trying to flex my fingers. Aunt May quietly sits beside me on the bed and presses the back of her hand against my forehead, and then my cheek. Her fingers feel cold.

"What am I to do with you?" she whispers.

I shrug a little and avoid eye contact.

"You're very brave, you know," she says, placing her hand gently over my broken one, so that I stop messing around with the edge of the cast. "You're a million times braver than me."

"No I'm not," I reply, my voice still raspy.

"Yes, you are."

"Brave guys don't tell secrets," I say, pulling my hand away. "Especially secrets like this."

"What do you mean by that?" Aunt May asks. When I don't answer, she looks up at Mr. Stark, still standing uncomfortably in the doorway, and gives him a shrug.

He shakes his head. He doesn't know what I mean.

"Come on, talk to me," she bends down over me, somewhere between a hug and a smother. She brushes hair from the top of my head and gets too close to my face. "You can't shut me out. You can't. I thought we agreed. No secrets."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I know Mr. Stark's team is going through the footage."

"Yeah... he told me."

"Did they mention the part where I completely failed YOU?"

Aunt May's eyes flick back up to Mr. Stark, then back to me. A moment of recognition passes between them. Maybe they both realize what I'm referring to simultaneously.

"It's okay," she soothes. "Whatever you said, maybe…"

"It's not okay," I interrupted, "I said who I was. I told him my name." I muffle my voice in my pillow. "Our name."

Mr. Stark makes an acknowledging sound, sort of like an ahem and a croak.

"Yeah, hold that thought, before you get all, y'know," he says, clearing his throat. "There's a few precautions we can take regarding that… let me… let me make some calls."

He casually steps away from the door and walks down the hall, the footsteps disappearing. Maybe he realized our apartment is going to need a deadbolt upgrade. Maybe Ned needs a security detail now. Oh god, Ned. I haven't spoken to him... I hope he's okay.

"Screw them," Aunt May says, surprising me with her flippant attitude. "I got put in an alumni directory a few years ago so assholes I went to school with can find me any time. You didn't make the prospect of someone finding me any worse. Trust me on that."

"May," I reply, "You know this is worse. It's a corrupt cop."

"Eh," she says, "From another borough."

"You have to take this seriously. He could show up at your work or... at home... at school."

"A tsunami could wipe out New York," she adds, "A hurricane could kill us all. Artificial intelligence from Stark Industries could suddenly decide to fight the humans."

I think about Vision in Germany and the corner of my mouth twitches.

"Was that a smile?" she asks, poking me in the face.

"Ow. And no."

"It was," she grins, and then sobers. "Look," she says in a strict voice, sitting up straighter. "There's a couple of things I'll let slide. One, even after this, if you still want to be a hero, I won't try to stop you. Don't think I even could if I tried. Two, if you suddenly decide honesty isn't the best policy, I'll just check in with Mr. Stark here and he can just stalk you all over the place with his special program-thing and I get full reports, and then you can just try to be dishonest with me and see how it goes. Three - no, that's it. Here's what won't slide, ever."

She brings her other leg up on the bed and kneels facing me and crossing her arms over her chest. "I will not allow you to do everything I've hated in those dumb movies you and Ned are so fond of - the weight of the world upon your shoulders and embracing your inner worthlessness and guilt for every little thing that goes wrong. You're a teenager. You're going to fuck up once on awhile. That's how life works."

She slides off the bed, bends down and kisses me much too loudly on the forehead. "Giving up your name was probably the least you could do. I know if I were in your shoes I would have been giving my social security number, my address, every penny I had - whatever he asked for."

I give her a doubting glance.

"Really," she assures. "Now - I've had enough self-hatred for today." She lifts the gift basket off the floor. "Why don't we look through this mess? And if you feel like telling me about your experience, you can. But I'm not going to force you."

I tentatively lift my head off the pillow. "Really?"

"Not if you don't want to."

I sit up, an idea forming. Maybe if I could fill in the gaps myself... maybe I would feel like I knew enough to tell. Right now it's just scenes of pain. How exactly would 'sharing' the experience look like? Hey, Aunt May, at approximately midnight, I am pretty sure I cried and begged for mercy a lot? But at two a.m., I was unconscious. At three, I was stabbed!

She wasn't prepared to hear that. And I'm not prepared to say it out loud.

But maybe I could be, if I get access to the baby monitor footage. I imagine a metaphorical lightbulb goes ding! above my head.

"Okay," I say slowly, "Let's... look at the gift basket."

Aunt May nods, accepting my answer. She starts messing around with the cellophane. "Let's see whatchya got."

…

There's still an uncomfortable lapse of time between leaving the scene of the apartment fire and waking up in the basement. I have flashes; more feelings than anything else, but not enough to piece it together. Why I would even want more memories, I couldn't explain.

Maybe it's a guilt thing. Maybe if I can remember what happened, I won't feel so guilty for letting it all happen. Because maybe I didn't let it happen.

One of the resurfacing memories is the cop saying I gave you a lift, involuntarily. Maybe he was just being sarcastic. One of the many traits he exuded while he cut me open like a science experiment.

Maybe I just can't let it go; a part of my own morbid, scientific curiosity.

I try to sleep, and I keep flinching, in the dark. I've pulled the bandages from my hands, finally freeing my reset fingers. The dark bruises around my wrists are disappearing, the slices down each inner forearm are now scars. Scars that look like unsuccessful suicide attempts. That will be difficult to explain unless they fade faster than the next time I have to wear a T-shirt at school…

I lift my head up from the pillow and look at Aunt May. The small loveseat against the wall is actually a fold out bed, which she made use of immediately. She wanted to keep an eye on me; as long as the doctors said they wanted me to stay one night for observation. One night, too many. Or maybe it's a perfect coincidence.

I quietly slip out of bed, and find a pair of black sweatpants folded nicely on a chair. I definitely don't want to wander around in my boxers and slip them on, almost bumping into the loveseat and toppling over.

Aunt May stirs but doesn't wake up. Close one.

I had already been disconnected from my variety of tubes and wires; no more IV lines stuck in the back of my hand or heart monitor making annoying beeps whenever I feel panic lacing it's way through my veins. Before bedtime, I convinced the nurse I was feeling almost totally normal, and that I wouldn't be able to sleep with needles sticking out of me anyway - so if they prescribed rest - they'd better detach me.

It worked.

I sneak out of the recovery room and down the dark hallway barely lit, counting door after door after door until I reach waiting room. Seriously - how many injured Avengers does Tony expect to house here at any given time? At what point would all the Avengers and their associates be in the type of mission that requires hospital care? I understand having one room on hand, maybe two, but not… eight. A dozen. Twenty.

I shudder. I can't imagine a scenario where everyone on the team needs a room at once.

There's a desk with a glass window shut above it, and another wide doorway leading out of the hospital portion of the facility and into other areas.

I leave the waiting room and go through the main doors. There's another long hall until I reach a T, most doors on either side leading to storage closets and small personnel offices. On the wall ahead of me there's sign pointing left for cafeteria, main entrance, elevators, and right for operations, garages, storage, labs.

It doesn't mean operations like surgery. It means operating the facility itself. The inner workings. Administrative... and technological. Maybe even a room where they comb through the video evidence of... of me. And a certain police officer.

I take a right.

I maneuver down the hall and come to an open entry. It's similar to the one facing the front of the building, where Mr. Stark walked me down pretending to prepare me for a fake press conference that would never happen, and show me the new Spider suit that I had turned down. It seems like a lifetime ago.

This hall is the mirror image; giant floor to ceiling windows on the left instead of the right, metal paneling with interesting looking doors on the right. All sorts of cool stuff I would geek out about are behind there. Maybe if I were just exploring to be an ass, I'd start looking behind each one. But I'm not, I'm on mission.

I walk down the abandoned hall, feeling the creeps of wandering a giant corporate-looking facility in the dead of night. I even feel the need to glance over my shoulder every so often, even though my spider-senses are on high alert for any movement, and nothing could hide in the minimalist decoration. I had been thinking about this ever since my conversation with May this afternoon; and I realized I could never truly be transparent with her unless I knew the full story. This was as much for me as it was for her.

I come to a corner where there's a help desk. It leads to long hallways branching off in V shaped directions. The desktop computer is on still, it's light blue interface hovering a few inches in mid-air in front of the screen, the screensaver a simple log-in box floating aimlessly from each projected corner to corner.

It gives the whole area a sort of mute, blue sheen, like it's facing an aquarium instead of floor to ceiling windows.

Behind me, the windows look onto a dark landscape and the trees of upstate New York. Outdoor lights reveal the edge of the one of the big garages and something that looks sort of like a landing pad for a helicopter. There is so much to this place.

I hear the shuffle of someone approaching. Someone slightly heavy set, male, humming under his breath and adjusting the static on a radio - Happy.

"Shit," I whisper. I panic and dive over the counter of the help desk, launch myself underneath it, and hug my knees to keep my long legs from accidentally kicking the desk chair away. The sudden movement reminds me I've not yet healed, and each ache and pain suddenly re-bloom with inflammation and throbbing. Particularly my arms and my sides. I press a hand against the sutures. Despite still being tender, they're not ripped or bleeding again. So I'm okay there.

Happy's presence looms closer. He's in a good mood, humming, tossing his small radio back and forth. I hear him tuck the hardware on his belt, and adjust his in-ear, fiddling with the tiny curly cord that goes from the headset into the back of his jacket. "Yeah, absolutely," I hear him say, and I realize he's probably on the line already; or worse, talking with Mr. Stark. "Yeah, I'm just heading out now. Just making sure everything's ship-shape. Got some extra man power here today, cuz of the kid. Yeah. Hold on, some squib left their desktop on."

Before I can even come close to reacting, Happy comes into the console area. I can see his legs from where I'm hiding under the desk, and some badges hanging from his belt. I hear him fiddling around with the computer, sliding the projected interface back to the main monitor, click a few keys, and then suddenly, the hard drive next to me on the floor clicks and stops humming. I know somewhere in the building, an arc reactor is likely storing all the energy for turning it back on again in the morning. No cords. Interesting.

As Happy walks back out to the main entry, my hand slips out from under the desk and tugs on the entrance badge hanging from his belt. It's his security ID for the whole facility. The golden ticket, as it were. Did this make me Charlie? Does that make Mr. Stark Willy Wonka?

The clip undoes itself and the badge falls into my hand. I whisk it back under the desk just in time for Happy to turn around with a perplexed expression.

He stands there in absolute silence, observing the empty office space. He doesn't look towards the floor at all, but suspiciously glares over the room.

I don't breathe.

He shrugs a little before moving on, turning and leaving the console area and walking down the hallway again. But he doesn't whistle.

He's going to be so mad at me tomorrow...

I follow the signs. The kinds on the wall, and the sorts you pay attention to in your gut.

Sign on the wall: ATV Center.

Heart: Pumps faster

Ears: Electric humming; a lot of power, a vibration in the walls.

Skin: Warmer.

Sign on the wall: Authorized personnel only

I press the ID against the scanner on the wall, it beeps, turns green, and the door clicks. I press the module and it slides open neatly, like blaster doors in Star Wars.

"Cool," I whisper, looking left to right as I step in.

The room looks like an IT station, not as cramped as a security guard's monitor room, but not exactly the spread I envisioned.

Of course all the hardware is up to date, but the room itself is simply streamlined, white, rows of workstations with different panels and monitors at each one. It looks like an Apple store.

There are windows on the other side looking onto a balcony, and that balcony (I'm pretty sure) looks onto a hanger where quinjets are kept, if I haven't lost my sense of direction.

I make note of the window in case there are regular security guards looking in. The room isn't very big, which means it might actually be easier to find what I'm looking for.

I begin by searching the workstations for any sign of... me, I guess. It takes me a few tries of circumnavigating the room till I spy a small piece of tech that I recognize from my suit sitting on smooth white desk. I remember seeing this same sort of thing when Ned and I tore into the suit and discovered the protocols in the first place, during the field trip for the decathlon.

I wonder what Liz is doing right now.

I sit at the workstation and examine the small hardware. It's a tiny data chip, and a small metal clamp is connecting the wires to the adapter, which is then plugged into a regular USB drive. I look at the screen and take a deep breath, then toggle the keyboard to see if anything comes up.

The interface blinks awake, and a log-in field pops up. With a sigh, I drum my fingers against the desk distractedly. Ouch, damnit. My fingers are still sore from being broken... today. This morning. Or late last night, however you want to spell it. Zero hour.

I look at the clock; it's after midnight. So... yesterday.

"Shit," I whisper, looking around. This was a stupid idea.

I glance over at the data chip again, sighing. Huh.

I wonder what else they plugged into the system.

I look down at the desktop. Nothing really. A tablet, a tablet pen. A few old fashioned post-it notes.

One says

1) Run systems

2) check on the AI

3) beta test new com link.

Bingo. Whoever this squib was, the reminders they wrote to him or herself were quite helpful to

Me. There's no way I'm going to guess their password, after all.

But artificial intelligence can.

...

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* * *

...

...

Dearest Readers,

I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG TO POST AGAIN! Truthfully, I FORGOT to post before going on my camping trip! I apologize a hundred times over. No more waiting! Back to regular posting, I promise!

Love, Pip

...

...

* * *

 **Coming Up Next:** It's time for Peter Parker to bust out some of his computer skills as quietly as he can...


	16. Hacker

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* * *

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Sixteen: Hacker

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* * *

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...

I look under the workstation. These white desks all sort of looked like the inside of an Apple store, or something from a fancy Tom Cruise space movie. Everything is smooth and there's no visible seems, but plenty of blank panels.

I press one of the panels, and it slides open to reveal a drawer.

Perfect - there's a small, entangled mass of wires - wires I recognize from my destroyed comlink. I lift them out of the drawer, press it shut, and set to work untangling them.

There's no way I can use this to hear Karen, not this way. But if I jerryrig it to plug into the monitor…

I take the small clamp from the data chip, and clamp it over the exposed metal piece of the comlink's motherboard. It's about the size of a penny. I wish I had a microscope nearby to take a closer look at the details, but I just don't have the time.

I sneak a glance at the windows looking over the balcony. Nothing. My senses don't detect anyone patrolling this side of the hall, either. Some movement at the other side of the building, a slight vibration in the hallway I came from as someone passed by the entrance, but never actually turns into it. I'm good to go.

The screen changes.

* * *

Input detected

Approved AI initiating

* * *

The screen lights up another shade, and the log-in box goes dark for a second. An audio wave-length appears in a sort of video-game looking form in bright blue. With each audio jump, the wavelength changes, animation according to the words spoken.

"Good morning, Peter," says Karen's voice, the wavelength increasing with inflections.

"Hi Karen," I reply uneasily. "Firstly, can you not tell anyone I'm doing this right now?"

"My activation is logged, I cannot control that," Karen says. "But as I am an approved Stark intelligence operating within my own base, I will not be setting off any intruder alarms, if that's what you indicate."

"Okay, okay, yeah, good," I say. "So there's an issue with using the computer here. Is there a way I can log in? I just need the desktop. I'm not... trying to get into any files or anything." I look down at the data chip. "I have all that already."

"I can log you in as a guest," Karen suggests, "But all of these are tracked, you understand."

"How often do they check the logs?"

"After hours use of the computers will send an alert via email notification to a management position," Karen says, and if she were a person, I would swear she was smirking. "But they won't get it until 8 AM tomorrow morning."

"Let's do it. Get me in."

The screen blips, and the log in box shows the word GUEST being typed into the user field. The password is bypassed and it opens to a blank desktop. They certainly can't accuse me of stealing any Avengers secrets, thank goodness. There's no access to the cloud or skynet or google drive or whatever the hell they use to store things from here.

"Thanks Karen," I say. "You're the best."

"What else would you like me to do?"

"Well - that's it, actually. I'll talk to you again once when the hardware is repaired in the suit."

"What do you plan to do?"

"Why?" I ask, bemused. "You worried?"

"I do not worry," Karen says. "But I feel that I must warn you that using my capabilities to access unauthorized hardware may be considered severe breach of..."

I wince as I cut her short by unclipping the motherboard. The audio wave disappears from the screen, leaving only the blank desktop screen, the same light blue interface as all the others.

"Sorry Karen," I say regrettably, as I reclip the wire onto the data chip again.

A circular module pops up on the floating screen, and I use my hand to twist it, highlighting different options like a wheel in a game show.

* * *

\- Access code

\- Troubleshoot

\- Manual

\- Data

\- Hardware

\- Data

\- Utilities

\- Terminal

\- System Files

\- Full Programs

-Training Wheels Protocol

\- Baby Monitor Program

\- Reconnaissance

\- Catch and Release

\- Heat Register Detection

* * *

I blink. There's a lot. Scrolling down the page, there's hundreds of full programs. Not enough to look into now - but someday. I click on baby monitor program.

* * *

\- Baby Monitor Program

\- Audio

* * *

This could be good. I tap my finger on the file, and another circular module floats on the screen. I twist it with my fingertips, same as the other, to see the line of programs appear.

* * *

\- Stark. Ind. Only Signals

\- Greetings

\- Foreign Languages

\- Commands

\- Dictionary

* * *

Nope.

* * *

\- VSC

\- Data

\- 14.200-14

\- 14.201-14

\- 14.202-14

* * *

This is going to take forever, I think. I tap on one of the data files with a sigh.

* * *

\- VD code

* * *

Nope.

I tap the next one.

* * *

\- System hardware

* * *

Nope.

I click the third one.

* * *

\- mp4 downloads

* * *

Oh, shit, that's it. I nervously tap on it, my stomach suddenly queasy. There's a square that slides into the screen, full of thumbnails. Each thumbnail is a gif, with movement for about three seconds so I can tell which video it is by sight. One thumbnail is three seconds of being airborne in the New York Skyline. One is scaling a brick wall. There's one with a burst of electrical energy - the ATM robbery. I am scrolling through the last few weeks of footage, each mp4 file broken down by the day, a few hours each. There's some options spinning on a little wheel in the upper right corner, indicating I can split the videos further - organize by night, or day, or by the minute. I can search for videos by key words used in the audio or by dragging an image in for facial recognition.

I'm getting closer.

One is my bedroom ceiling as I sneak in. Another brick wall. One looks dark, with a sudden burst of orange. The apartment fire.

I press my hand to the wound in my side, suddenly feeling the urge to vomit. Not right now.

I click the next video, a thumbnail of a city street. It's getting dark, and there's a streetlamp turning on automatically.

The video pops up and begins to play. I tap the corner where there is a tiny bell icon to bring the volume up.

I can hear my own breathing from the output as the video shows my point of view. The city streets are dark, lights beginning to buzz and thrum as they turn on at dusk. My POV swings around, looks back behind me in the distance. Suddenly I'm there. I'm there. I can feel myself there - the smells of the city, the temperature dropping, the colors.

It's like a time-loop in an old movie. As the plot unfolds, each millisecond returns the memory to me, remembering and learning for the first time simultaneously. A paradox of both input and output.

…

He pulls up my sleeve.

"But, but, but," I try, my humor rising out of me like an unwelcome balloon. "D-d-depends on the questions?"

I can do nothing but flinch when he scrapes the sharpened blade across my forearm, watching with dissatisfied interest when the skin opens up like normal skin does. My arm starts bleeding profusely.

I twitch slightly, biting back the word ow, trying not to show weakness...

...

I forgot I was watching a video.

I hit pause.

The sudden silence envelopes me, reminding me where I am.

Safe.

I slip out of the chair and down to the floor, feeling lightheaded and weak. I don't realize I have pushed myself under the desk until that's where I am, holding my head and pressing my forehead into my knees.

The things I had forgotten are coming back.

I feel the ridge of a scar under my hair, already healed even by the time I was rescued. My wrists and shoulders are still sore and bruised.

I look at the scar on my wrist and feel bile rising in my throat.

The video can wait - a moment.

I need a moment.

Breathe in, and out, in, and out. breathe in out in out out out out out out out out out out

I adjust my knees so I can lower my head further.

I don't wait to faint

don't faint don't faint

I grasp the small waste basket beside me and vomit into it, candy bar and jello remains from earlier wetly smacking against the inside amongst old post its and a broken set of earbuds.

Black dots swim into my vision again.

No no no no…

not under some guy's desk with your own abduction footage on pause above you…

can't breathe

Breathe.

In out out out

No

in and out

in and out

Out

Out

Out

shit

...

...

I twitch awake.

Looking blearily around me. Shit.

I did faint. Damnit. What kind of whimpy ass hero faints under a desk? Ugh... this one, I guess.

I crawl out from under the desk and hoist myself back into the chair. I look at the interface clock. I was only out for a minute and forty seconds. Not long, but... I feel... rested. Better, almost. Emptied, that's for certain. I look confusedly down at the waist basket. How am I supposed to... I'll worry about it later.

I take a deep, shaky breath. And press play again.

…

"What is it with you boys in tight red costumes?"

I don't answer. Don't be sarcastic, it makes things worse.

"Maybe because the boys in blue just aren't very trustworthy right now," I respond. "We have to set ourselves apart from people like you."

If I could kick myself in the face at this point, I probably would.

"Ha... ha. Yeah. I'll give you that one. Okay! Next!" he kneels down and with a grunt of force, drives the knife down into the bridge of my foot.

…

I flinch so hard that I kick the bottom of the desk.

I pause the video... I know what's coming next. I remember. I'm not prepared for it.

I grab the waste basket and dry heave into it, over and over again. There's nothing more to vomit. I've only eaten a little bit of candy and jello today. I lost all of it already.

I can't do this, I think. But I have to do this.

"Damn it," I whisper, thrusting the waste basket violently under the desk again. I sit up, take a deep breath, and click play again. I will get through this if it kills me. Because... it didn't. I need to get a hold of myself.

...

"P-p-please, don't do this. I just... I'm..." my hearing is really off at this point, pressure coming in and out like something in dubstep. "I j-ju-just w-w-want to go h-h-h-ome."

"Where might that be?" he asks.

My head droops, too heavy to lift any longer.

He grabs where my hand is sticking out of the edge of the vice and yanks on my pinky finger, and with a snap, it breaks.

"S-stop," I moan. "S-stop. Please. Don't."

"Or what?"

I try to scream but it just comes out in a hoarse croak.

"Come on, stop me. With words." He reaches for my middle finger. "Anything will do."

…

* * *

[Pause]

* * *

I'm nearly caught up to the point where my memory is clearer. A lot of this blended together and I didn't remember some of it. Why the hell was I trying so hard to be funny? Who was I going to impress? Why didn't this asshole have a list of things he needed from me? He seemed to change his mind back and forth about what he wanted. Was it information about Spider Man? How long I took to heal, and where I lived? Or was it about the Avengers and where they lived? Was this really for some criminal organization, or for his own morbid curiosity? Especially if he couldn't seem to decide one way or the other what he wanted to know the most?

His inconsistency made him more frightening. I never knew what he was going to do next or where his questions would go. I had no idea what he really wanted, which meant everything I said, or didn't say, was somehow wrong and he only hurt me more.

I suppress a shudder of fear running through me. He can't hurt me anymore.

I need a break.

I stand up from the desk. I flex my bruised shoulders. I test my wrist movement. It's all... okay. Sore, and creaky. I feel like I got ran over by a truck multiple times, or like how one might feel after a bad fall. Not hours of torture. Certainly not with multiple broken bones. But I guess they're not technically broken anymore, are they?

I sit back down again and pull off my sock. Yes, I wandered the Avengers facility in the middle of the night in socks. What else would a teenager stuck in a super-secret-hero-hospital do?

There's a dark scab on the bridge of my foot, and yellow bruising all around it. It's tender to the touch but I didn't feel it at all while I was walking. But now after accidentally kicking the desk, it's throbbing a bit.

So how am I supposed to take a break? I didn't see any vending machines on my way in... not that I really have an appetite right now, anyway. The only one I know about is back near the entrance of the hospital floor, where a certain Aunt May might be sleeping, or sitting up and pissed off that I'm missing. I certainly hope it's not the latter.

I stand up again and glance into the garbage can. Hm. It's full of my vomit. Great. Unless I'd like to leave my DNA all over the place for the worker to find and then report to his manager who also receives a suspicious email about someone accessing the same workstation who reports to his manager who then reports to Mr. Stark and... well, I'm caught anyway.

I remove the bag from the bin and tie off the top. Then I move to the next workstation, find another bag. It's full of... candy wrappers. Sweet tooth. I pick it up and tie it off.

Then I move to the next one... a garbage full of paper. Come on, haven't you ever heard of recycling, people? Save the planet, and everything? In school, the phrase Reduce, Re-Use, Recycle was drummed into our heads as much as state capitols.

Before I know it, I've emptied every trash can in the room and I'm carrying around about ten small bags in each hand. I use my foot to bump the door open and walk quietly down the hall, till I find a small office labeled housekeeping and maintenance.

I put the bags near the housekeeping cart inside and find a small pad of paper with cleaning supply lists on it. I leave a note to explain why there's twenty bags of garbage waiting for whichever poor housekeeper I just dumped this on.

"Sorry, cleaning ladies, er, gentlemen..." I whisper, shutting the door behind me. I trudge sorely back down the hall, counting the doors till I reach five down. I use Happy's badge and slip back inside.

Break time over. I walk back to the desk and glance over at the windows along the side, catching a glimpse of my reflection for the first time since being rescued.

What the actual hell?

It occurs to me there is no mirror in the tiny bathroom of my hospital room. I'm wondering if that was done on purpose.

I look absolutely horrific. I can't believe Aunt May was able to keep herself as composed as she was. My entire face is blotchy with yellow and purple bruising, mostly the entire nose, up the forehead, and across my cheeks. There's dark red lines under my eyes - broken nose, of course.

There's dried scabs giving me stripes on my lower lips from the times they split. My eyes are a grayish purple on the upper lids, and still swollen, too. If this is what I look like after a full day, I can't even imagine the shit-show I looked like when I came in.

No one at school is going to believe I had the flu if this doesn't go away quickly enough. I try to imagine how that conversation would even sound.

"What happened to you?" Michelle would ask.

"Flu," I'd reply.

"Yeah right," she'd reply in a monotone.

"Well, you see, what, I meant to say - I was - "

"Yeah," she'd repeat, "Don't care."

And then she'd smirk.

I shook my head. What am I doing?

It doesn't matter what Michelle would say. What would Liz say?

The Spider-Man part of me... the humorous and sarcastic and quippy version of myself... seems to suggest; Well, Liz is in Oregon now, so, maybe just consider what Michelle would say instead...? She's pretty. And funny. And smart. And your friend.

Maybe she wouldn't say 'don't care.'

Maybe she would care, and she'd ask me how I'm feeling. If there's anything I'd like to confide in her.

I shake my head. Great, now Peter Parker and Spider-Man are having disagreements over which girl to think about.

I have some serious issues.

...

...

* * *

...

...

* * *

 **Coming Up Next:** Peter watches all of the video footage. Feeling drained, he's not quite as careful as he should be going back to his room. Happy has eyes in the back of his head.


	17. Filling in the Gaps

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* * *

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Seventeen: Filling in the Gaps

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* * *

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...

I sit back at the desk and skip ahead through the frames.

I had passed out immediately after he broke my other finger. My head stays completely limp and my body sags for several minutes. It's almost scarier watching this in fast-forward, seeing the man pace around the room, waiting for me to wake up.

I watch his face lean into frame, cutting open the same wounds on my chest while I'm unconscious, and then watches them bleed like some sort of creepy vampire who just happens to be hydrated already.

What's the point of that? I'm not going to tell him anything if I'm passed out! Was it literally just to be a sadist?

I watch safely from the desk chair as my body on screen flinches, the viewpoint jolting. A slight twitch of pain in my unconsciousness, and nothing more.

I don't wake up.

I can tell from his movements he's getting nervous - pacing more. He checks my pulse at my neck. He even leaves my suit's line of vision for a audio picks up his footsteps, checking the base of the stairs.

He truly has no idea that the tiny camera, undamaged by the knife, sits near my collarbone and is watching his every move as long as he's somewhere in front of me.

He has no idea that Karen is slowly coming back, self-replicating repair at work where her own systems are attempting to override the damage done by the blast. My AI is busy searching for working circuits to bypass the crushed hardware to find another place within the suit to re-connect her own output audio.

Just to talk to me, even when she can't talk to anyone else and call for help because she can't connect to anything outside of the basement. She is literally trying to distract him from hurting me further with a bluff. My AI is so smart... it's sort of scary.

I continue pressing through the next few frames - reaching the point where my memory is the clearest. I remember what happens at this point - too well.

He told me that he wasn't going to kill me even though I saw his face. It was relieving... in a way. But then he told me that there was nothing I could do to fight him. He would just out my secret identity. And I spilled my guts on whatever I thought I knew about the Avengers facility... like a wuss.

I sit back and left the video on pause, partially in shock. The whole sequence, with pauses and gaps and moments of unconsciousness and the times spend of me crying and screaming while he stood by and waited for me to calm down... the whole thing had lasted through Tuesday night and into Wednesday morning. Sometime after midnight.

And that's when my memory grows fuzzy again.

I stretch my healing fingers, and then lean my head from side to side till something in my spine pops. I have to keep centering myself. Reminding myself of where I am. Not in the basement. At a desk. Not in the basement.

But my pain relievers are wearing off, and I feel a flare of pain beginning in my ribs. I involuntarily press a hand to my side, lifting up my T-shirt to check the gauze covering the wound. I'm not connected to an IV anymore, so no spontaneous button-tapping drug to flood my system at this point.

At least that stuff is strong enough to have an effect. At home, I have to take, like, eight or ten aspirin to have any positive results for something as simple as a headache. My tolerance is sorta high.

I feel suddenly homesick. Even homesick for school, to a point. Aside from being a sort of nerdy dweeb that gets picked on... I like learning. I like science, a lot. And I swore if I got out of this situation alive I'd try photography - isn't there a yearbook class I could try next year?

I'm homesick for my friends. I want to just go back to last month, things were simpler. No one knew my secret. Ned and I would binge Star Wars or something and eat junk food and hang out. After he'd go home, I'd say g'night to Aunt May and sneak out my bedroom window to do a little old-fashioned crime fighting.

Nothing... nothing followed me home, then. It was just me swinging around at night on the street stopping muggings and walking people home and catching hit'n'runs.

Once I stopped a guy from speeding through a school zone. I webbed his car and pulled him back and made him drive through again at the right speed… calling taunts out to him through his open driver's side window the whole time.

I chuckle. And make a decision. Either I can... put this away, now, and go back to sleep. Go home tomorrow. Go back to school later. Try to forget the whole thing, and let the memories come back naturally... or, not at all. And maybe if they don't, it's meant to be?

After all, whatever happened, happened, already, right? The important thing is I ended up here and not dead in some underground garage.

Or... I can stay up even later and keep watching. Once the officer heard Karen trying to talk, he ran back to my mask and stomped the life out of it, again, in a panic. Still didn't discontinue the baby monitor program.

"I don't need this," I say out loud. I stand up from the desk and walk dejectedly towards the door.

I don't. I'm okay with not knowing. I remember the feelings of being unconscious, I remember crawling out of the garage. I remember... talking. I think. Or calling for help. Something like that. But it doesn't matter…

Or I can wonder about this FOREVER?

Why am I so obsessed with the details, anyway? I escaped, Mr. Stark's suit thingy rescued me, I'm here, I'm alive.

I just know the guy that did this to me walked out. Maybe that's why I'm so obsessed with seeing this. It's him. My torturer. If I can't recall all the details -

What's to stop this from happening again?

I won't take that chance, hell no.

"Who the hell am I kidding?" I whisper, turning around and marching right back to the computer. I sit again, steadying my breathing.

You're in the Avengers facility. You're safe.

I press play again. Nearly finished.

I watch as Karen flickers to life... and the man stomps off in search of the source, not realizing its coming partially from my suit.

Then he returns, stabbing me in between the ribs. Then he releases me - checks my phone - mocks my healing ability, and then leaves me alone. Alone.

I watch, open mouthed, at the jolty images of me struggling to stand. Then pixelated images of the stairs, the alley, and the city float past the point-of-view. The quality is starting to get botchy, the AI damage affecting the camera. The faces of the paramedics become pixelated, then clear, and then pixelated again.

I don't remember any of the conversation we had, and I'm shocked - and sort of entranced - to hear Brian and Jeff asking me questions, and my pained, tortured responses. At some point I blurt out to poor Brian that my mom is dead.

It's irrelevant and I'm embarrassed that I did such a thing - even more embarrassed that I didn't remember any of this and had to watch it on screen to realize I did.

Even weirder than having my memories of the forgotten conversations restored was when I lost consciousness in the medsuit. My monitor kept filming, but my stuttered questions to Happy and the Doctor over the line grow wearily slurry until I pass out. And then silence, and a few sharp commands from Happy.

"Kid, wake up, you hear me? KID. Shit. Shit. Shit. Doc?"

"Yes."

"The kid is out."

"I'm certain he is. But we can see him now."

"You see him now? The suit's approaching?"

"It's landing now. We got him."

"Tell me he's okay. He's not dead? He's not DEAD, right?"

The medsuit opens like curtains being pulled back, and the doctor's portly, dark face leans into frame. A feebled, red gloved hand raises and shoves at him, but he easily just steps out of my reach.

As if in my deadly stupor, I thought I was supposed to defend myself. I'm such an idiot!

I'm too weak to be successful at anything. He merely shouts instructions to the rest of the staff, and I'm soon surrounded and the tarp is lifted, my body sagging out of the suit and into a stretcher. My arms are quickly strapped in. No surprises.

The staff start rattling off blood pressure, respiration, and other statistics that don't make sense to me.

"He's alive," the doctor says in a rush - to someone standing far off, behind the other workers. "Please wait outside, sir."

It's Mr. Stark, I think.

The last frame remains frozen on the screen, the close up of the doctor's face in the emergency wing here at the complex. One last image before he cut away the top of the suit to do surgery, and the last of the wires keeping anything in the camera at my collarbone in working order were severed.

"And that concludes our program!" I exclaim in a weird, sing-song voice. Oh boy. I'm really tired. "Box office failure. No sequels. Refund at the door."

I check the time - it's been about six hours or so. It's about three o'clock in the morning. I'm so overwhelmed with finally getting the full story that it leaves me exhausted, yet strangely unsatisfied, as if I had run a really hard marathon only to find out I arrived in the wrong city at someone else's finish line.

I distractedly tap the search options in the upper right of the screen, moving the circle to the side with my fingers and hovering over the one that had caught my eye early on. Facial recognition.

I tap SEARCH ALL and start working my way through hundreds of faces.

I see the woman from the apartment fire. She appears from a Facebook page. Kim Matthews.

A few of the firemen follow, from a variety of social media pages - Stephen, Chris, Lane, Bella. Then the last, Jeff and Brian.

Jeff's picture comes up as a former member of Shield, low-level medical technician in a Boston location. There's a small tic mark next to his name - a checkmark to indicate there's further files on him, not just on the internet, but on the servers here at the facility.

Out of curiosity, I click on it. Most of the information is redacted in black lines since I'm still on a guest account, but there's a note I can still read.

It indicates that something called by the code-name Tumore deemed him "not a threat". He quit his job as the med tech at Shield to go join the fire program long before Shield went under, long the media lost its mind at some sort of Hydra corporate takeover. Interesting.

Another scrolls by; the paramedic Brian who may have truly saved my life - twice. If I move this window aside and check the frames again; I can see my earlier fears are unfounded. He never removed my mask or looked at my face, nor did he let anyone else try to. But it ended up not mattering in the long run - did it? He saw my face, maskless, when I got out of the basement.

At one point during the apartment fire, Stephen pops up in the background with his cellphone and tries to take a picture of me. Brian waves him off, then returns to watching me sleep, continuously checking my vitals.

He gets on his phone and speaks with someone briefly, saying things like "Yeah, still running ground control here... yeah, no, you're going to have to send in the other county. We've still got a injury victim here that refused treatment. I'll explain when I get back. You know what, it's fine. I don't mind taking the heat for this one. Send the other county. We're going to be delayed here longer than we thought - okay? Tell the captain I'm making a call."

I shiver involuntarily. I'm freezing. Post ops are supposed to stay in bed and rest and use warm blankets and stay hydrated - I am doing none of those things. I promised the nurses that I would drink a lot of water whenever I woke up, on account that I was healing faster than most and did not, technically, need the hydration IV as long as I did my "due diligence".

I've been sitting here at a computer screen for hours... it's the least of diligences. Oops.

I press a hand to the wound in my side again, taking a deep breath. Still sore. It still feels like a strange, elastic sort of band running up through my injuries and into my chest tightens and expands with every breath, then deflates uncomfortably. There's no middle ground. Either the feeling of pain is going to snap and leave me spontaneously hemorrhaging or it feels too loose, like my bones are just going to fall out of my body and they're going to find a floppy bag of what's left of me...

Okay, I'm getting morbid. I need more sleep. I just want junk food and my best friend and bad movies and then I want to crawl out on the roof and look at my Queens skyline. I need the fresh air in my lungs and the shapes of the gray buildings against a muted orange sky...

I scroll by another face. The homeless guy I spoke to in the alleyway. A sort of friendly, but hard guy, skin conditions indicating struggles with meth and alcohol addictions, but somewhere a big heart and a lack of context urged a kid in "fancy" pajamas to not take shortcuts.

I wonder if he saw me get abducted? Would he have called for help on my behalf? Would he even have leaned far enough out of the alleyway to see why the side of the building directly beside him suddenly was damaged by a huge blast of white energy? Or did the drugs just whisper in his ear and tell him to go to sleep, it's none of his business?

Facial recognition brings up a mugshot. His name is Terry. He's smiling dopily for his picture. Charges are... public drunkenness. One count of possession when he was a minor... over twenty years ago. He hadn't been caught doing drugs since - but it was obvious they still have a hold on his life.

There's a part of me that suddenly feels unjustly angry towards him. If there was any potential witness to what happened to me - someone who saw what happened and did nothing - I could have been spared some of this.

"Why didn't you help me?" I whisper at the double screen. "Didn't you hear me scream? You had to. You must have at some point."

I flick away the window and pull up the last.

The face of the police officer fills the screen and I can't stop myself from flinching back. I use the toggle icon on the side and minimize the window slightly so he doesn't seem so freaking lifelike. He appears multiple times throughout the feed - obviously, most of them during our time spent in the basement garage.

Then I notice something weird.

The first time his face is recognized by the program is not when he abducts me later that evening. It's much earlier. At the scene of the apartment fire.

He's spotted - briefly - in the background. He looks towards the ambulance where I'm sitting up and talking to the paramedic, struggling with the oxygen mask.

When I hop out of the ambulance, the feed catches him again once more. He's sitting just past the caution tape, in his car. His face is completely passive as he watches me through the windshield. His expression doesn't change when the mother of the little girl throws her arms around me. And when I move, looking behind me at the flaming apartments receding into the distance - his car is pulling silently out of the traffic and into a side street, running parallel to the buildings I used for swinging away.

Breathe in,

breathe out.

Breathe in,

breathe out.

[click]

* * *

SOURCES

* * *

I pull open his ID page with the New York City police department. Hell's kitchen precinct. I don't think I'd be able to see this just using Google... but... Stark is resourceful. The Avengers more so, which means if I feel like finding the personal information on New York's finest right now, I can.

His name is Casey Cooper.

He looks like such a unsuspecting guy. Shorter, but tough. Slicked back hair, sort of blondish. Square jaw. Ridiculously normal looking, yet vaguely threatening. But maybe he only looks that way because I have the benefit of knowing what he's like when someone worse than him hands him a sharp toy and an innocent victim in a dark underground garage.

He thought it was funny that I was just a kid. And went to work anyhow.

Why would he do that? Why would…

No. I'm done. For real, this time.

I'm really done. It's time to put this away. I don't feel good. I feel... off. I haven't been drinking enough. And I'm exhausted. I just relived my entire Tuesday night and early Wednesday morning over the course of the current Wednesday night... and I have to go home tomorrow. Or today, technically. It's now early Thursday morning.

I am so behind on homework at this point, it's going to be unreal. I desperately can't fall behind. Not if I want to get into a good… college? Am I even going to college? I should, right?

But if I'm an Avenger by the time I graduate, how the hell am I going to get into a good science based university?

You won't need to worry about that, my brain logically steps in.

You're poor.

You can't afford college.

Aunt May can't afford college either.

You're going to be flipping burgers like the rest of them and night lighting as an Avenger.

I shrug this off. High school is far from over. I have time to plan ahead on that. Maybe get a part-time job and start earning some money. As what, though? Pizza delivery? Bike messenger? I don't... have to flip burgers, right? Not that there's anything wrong with it, it's just not really what I pictured. I'd take retail over fast food, I think.

I have... talents. I'm sure I do.

But what sort of talents do I have that... aren't athletic in nature? Like. Filming stupid videos on my phone. Disappointing the people I make promises to. Okay... so what do I have that no one else has? Aside from the obvious... Spider-Man.

But there's no way I can capitalize on that without giving myself away, or worse, signing the Accords. Which I may never do. Not until it's declared officially illegal not to.

I begin undoing the work I've done. I erase the user history. I run the whole program backwards to make sure each clip starts at the beginning should anyone else pull the feed.

I leave the wires and the microchip exactly how and where I found it. I log out of the guest account and let the computer go back to the first mode. I don't know why I bother with the motions of making it look like I wasn't here - they're going to find out whether I like it or not.

If anything, the janitors are going to know. I left them twenty trash bags.

I sit back and look at the workstation. It looks normal.

I leave the IT room and make sure the lights are off and the indicator by the door panel is the right color. Then I quietly move down the hall, though at this point, stealth is almost entirely unnecessary.

I pop out into the earlier reception area where I originally hid under the desk when Happy walked by. There is no one stirring and the place is dead. Feels like a corporate setting for a zombie apocalypse - too empty, too quiet, and too clean. Something in the plot would come up to disrupt the serenity...

I hold Happy's badge loosely in my hand and wonder what I'm supposed to do with it now.

"You idiot," I whisper out loud, nearly slapping my forehead but thinking better of it last minute. Not with multiple concussions and a broken nose.

How am I supposed to get his badge back to him without getting in major trouble and having Mr. Stark take away my suit again?

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," I mutter to myself.

Aunt May was right. Teenagers really do screw up. I've screwed up. I didn't plan ahead and now - what the hell am I supposed to do? Shit. What am I supposed to do with this?

Just leave it on the floor by the computer and pretend that he dropped it? Happy might buy it, second-guessing himself and thinking he just randomly lost his badge in a place he already looked in suspiciously before leaving.

Stark wouldn't, though. He trusts Happy more that Happy trusts Happy. He's going to know I had something to do with this either way.

"You're an asshole, Spider-Man," I say to myself in a frustrated huff. "You're going to get in so much trouble."

I make a few lefts and rights until I'm through the open lobby with the spacious windows, back to the other reception area for the hospital wing, past the eerie line of doors all open and empty and waiting for injured superheroes. Man, I really hope we don't need all these rooms.

There's a dark lump by the door to my room, and my awareness heightens to a sort of shrill, careful observance.

It's only Happy.

He's sitting in a chair pulled in from reception beside the door. His head is tilted back against the wall, his mouth open in a wide, soundless snore.

Why didn't he go home?

I'm realizing at this point he probably looked in on us and saw that I was gone and decided to wait till I came back. He probably realized his badge was missing, too, and put them together. He's no idiot.

I'm such a jerk.

I look at Happy for a moment and decide I shouldn't wake him up. What would I say, anyhow?

Sorry you've been sitting there for so many hours?

Sorry I STOLE your high security badge?

Of course, these are all things I should say... if I wasn't fifteen and a jackass.

I carefully reach down to the side of his jacket, and lift the lanyard sticking out of his belt. I reclip the badge back, and then let it fall harmlessly back against his leg.

He stirs slightly, closing his mouth and making a hmph sound as if he disapproves.

I do too, Happy. I do too.

I back away slowly, watching his movements. Until I'm positive he's not waking up, I go back into my room -

I trip on the gift basket by the foot of the bed, falling slightly into the side rail. The bed doesn't catch my weight like I thought it would - it's on wheels.

My falling shoves it four feet across the room, knocking over the deactivated IV stand onto the floor. The most horrendous, metal-on-linoleum crash erupts in the room as if Middletown High marching band surprised me from the bathroom and clanged every brass instrument together at once.

I freeze in place, a cringe on my face.

Here it is, Spider-Man! Your doom is at hand!

Aunt May and Happy both slam their hands on the light fixture simultaneously and the fluorescence flickers on. The lights buzz on, painfully and artificially bright.

"Hey?" I squeak.

...

...

* * *

...

...

* * *

 **Coming Up Next:** Peter is paying the price physically for pulling an all nighter, but that's really nothing compared to the guilt of going behind everyone's backs. Time to come clean!


	18. Handlers and Fevers

...

Dearest wonderful fabulous incredible and gracious readers,

I am SO sorry for the delay on posting for this. A few reasons. One, since I already wrote the other version, I FORGOT I was still posting the linear version! I just kept thinking I was done with it! Im SO sorry I neglected you. Another reason was I am working on a new fic that took over my life - I will try to post more about it to get you excited (and give you something new to read when this one and Where They Go is done). Here's a brief summary - an entire rewrite of the movie The Departed (starring Leo DiCaprio, Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg, Alec Baldwin, and Martin Sheen) RETOLD in the MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE! It's a ridiculous crime/mob movie starring Avengers and Hydra instead of the police and Boston gangs. It'll be a fun ride... I'll let you know when I'm posting it. Third, I AM working on the next chapter of Where They Go. I'd say I'm about a third of the way through. This one has taken awhile too for the same reasons. Fourthly, my social life went sort of nuts, haha. It'll calm down soon. (I think).

Anyways, love to all, thanks for the patience, and thank you especially to reader Shannon, who sent a wonderful review to Crystal my besta (that's the beta-bestie) for her story Riders in the Sky (#3 in the Paint it Black series, still the best multi-POV Marvel fanfictions you will EVER find). Shannon reminded Crystal I hadn't posted a new chapter who got the message to me, haha. Can I just say how much I love this lil' community?! Anyway, thank you Shannon. For those of you who don't know, QueenofCrystallopia in my favorite authors section has the best MCU AUs out there. Go check them out!

Sending all the hugs,

Pip

...

* * *

...

Eighteen: Handlers and Fevers

...

* * *

...

...

"What's wrong?" May asks, her voice hoarse with sleep. Her eyes are so big Happy could drive the car through them. "Did you just... fall out of bed?"

I start to lie "Aha, funny story…"

Happy is giving me the "you are so busted" expression and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I tripped on it and sort of fell over... but..."

"Are you okay?" May swings her legs out of the futon and rushes to my side. "Let's get you back into bed."

"No - I mean - I'm okay," I say hastily.

"What were you doing?"

"Just... going to the... bathroom," I say it so lamely, so noncommittal, it's pathetic.

"And then... what?" Happy interjects. "Started a construction project?"

"No!" I protest. "Just fell, very, very loudly."

"Do you feel faint or dizzy?" Aunt May asks confusedly.

"Aunt May, it's fine. I wasn't falling falling. Tripping. It's dark."

Truth is, under the sickly light, I feel a little faint. Sorta.

Happy rolls his eyes so high it looks like he's doing a zombie impression. He knows I can see relatively well in the dark, even without superpowers. The room just wasn't dark enough, period, to justify that excuse.

"Yeah, well, fine or not fine, you're still recovering, get back in bed," May points commandingly towards the bed. I tug it back away from where it crashed and start to walk towards the fallen IV stand.

"Nuh uh!" May adds. "I said get back in bed. I'll fetch the very expensive medical equipment."

May moves the bed away from the wall by a foot or so, and angrily re-gestures in a way that says I'd better get back inside of it or else.

Then she rights the IV stand. "I don't suppose it's insured?" she says, more to herself than me. She gives Happy a look that could wilt a bouquet. "Or maybe it looked just like this when we got here."

Happy shrugs. "Yeah, yeah, sure." Then he narrows his eyes. "Wait. No. Not at all. But it doesn't matter. No one cares if it's broken."

"No?"

"Trust me on this one."

"Why aren't you in bed yet?" May snaps at me.

Now she's being kind of unfair. My foot was still hanging out from under the blanket - which I quickly correct, pulling it under the covers like my life depends on it.

"I'm in bed," I say.

"Go to sleep," she amends. She waits until I've laid down carefully, pulling the blanket up around my shoulders. I'm shivering a little bit. It's cold.

She goes over and turns on a small light on the nurses station where a monitor hangs out of the wall to check vitals and a small cabinet of supplies sit. It has a comforting, golden glow, instead of the sickly lemonade shade from the cold lights above.

May looks back at Happy. "Mr. Hogan, let's step out in the hall for a second," she says, a little softer around the edges. She and Happy step into the hall together, turning off the florescent lights on their way out.

They're keeping their voices low and not even bothering to shut the door. I am supposing at this point it is quite obvious I never quite made the extent of my super-hearing clear to her.

"I know you're not a doctor," May says gently, "But you know this facility and the way it functions best. Can you give me a ballpark estimate of how much we're looking at? As far as cost? It's Peter's wishes that his identity stay a secret, so emergency surgery at the Avenger's complex isn't exactly a bill you can submit to insurance. Without insurance I'm paying out of pocket. Any chance you could... let me know. Just your best guess."

Happy makes a little scoffing sound. "That's not how it works here. And you may be surprised to find I most certainly do not know every detail that goes on around here, too."

"Uh huh."

"I know every detail concerning Tony Stark. We have certain medical treatments funded by medical research grants, Stark industry scholarships. For someone who signs the accords, there's some coverage from a budget the UN created. For Peter in particular, Stark Industries already has a subdivision that manufactures medical equipment for developing countries, an initiative that was created when Stark stopped the weapons division. So we had what we needed - we didn't have to dip into pools for the cost of..."

I imagine at this point Aunt May held up a hand to cut him short. "Spare me the details, please, I just need to know if I need to pawn off Ben's wedding ring at this point. Level with me."

I cringe and squeeze my eyes shut. I didn't even want to hear this - but there's no really stopping it.

"Peter's expenses here are covered," Happy sighs. "Simply put, we had the space and the supplies already. We paid the medical professionals a salary for their work and that comes out of a specific budget - not copays or patient bills. They fly in when we need them to and eventually they will be here full time when the Avengers team is fully - uh - operable - and the facility is running at full capacity. So if Peter ever needs anything - physical therapy - follow ups - hell, a chiropractor - it's here. Covered."

Silence.

"Dental?" May whispers, almost as a joke, but her voice is hopeful.

"Why the hell not?" Happy chuckles. "So... uh... give us a call when his wisdom teeth start giving him trouble, I guess?"

"Very funny," I mutter, then I clap a hand over my mouth, fall down into the pillow, and turn so that my back is to the door. I try to slow my breathing and look asleep again. It doesn't work, of course. But I'm in the clear - neither of them heard me, anyway.

"I will," Aunt May says quietly, taking a deep breath. "I don't suppose that you just gave me some of the best news I've ever - ever - received in my life."

"I didn't know. Not really."

"I'm basically a single mom of a teenager boy who tries to fight crime - do you know how much I worried about the cost of medical expenses before he found himself a primary caregiver with the Avengers?"

"I can't imagine, I guess," Happy says apologetically. "But we're... glad to help. He's a good kid. Ya know? A real good kid. They all are."

May's voice takes on a quizzical tone. "I just realized that we're standing here in a hallway at," she glances at a watch, "At o'dark thirty and I have no idea what you're doing here. What are you doing here? Did you need something?" she pauses. "Are you the door security tonight...?"

"Oh, this place is locked down," Happy responds. "You don't need a detail at the door."

"So you are here because...? I am sorry, I don't mean to be rude - but this - has been such a weird few days... and I'm very sleep deprived right now."

"I, uh... came to find my badge."

"The one you're wearing right now...?"

"One and the same. Disappeared on me earlier before I left and locked up for the night."

"So you found it… here? In the med wing?"

"I think our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is also my friendly neighborhood pick-pocket."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Uh, I mean, I ain't stupid. I hear someone following me around the facility at night. Someone small and stealthy. Should I note there's no one else staying in this wing here right now except you two? Thought not."

"And your badge disappeared?"

"My badge disappeared," he confirms, "I come by to check on the kiddo before heading out, and he's not in his bed. So I have a sit right here to wait for him to come back. A few minutes turn into a few hours. A few hours turns into me having a sleepover. And then I wake up to the sounds of him sneaking back into his room and knocking his bed into the next century while he does it. Badge is back on my belt. You do the math."

"Peter's the one that's good at math," May mumbles, sounding a little angry, but mostly just exhausted. "What do you suppose he was doing all night?" Suddenly her voice rises a bit. "You don't suppose he went right back out into the city to try and - and - do superhero things, do you?"

I sit up out of bed and swing my legs over the side. If I could do one thing tonight that isn't being a total asshole, I need to do it soon. I am slowly running out of opportunities.

Happy shrugs. "At the state he is in without any of his suits? With my badge? Unlikely."

May considers this. "If he's... getting into more trouble, I want to know before he winds up dead."

"I can check some things - see if I can't see the logs for anytime my badge was used at a security access point."

"I was just going to ask him," Aunt May suggests. "The thing is - kid lies to me all the time. He's got lies coming out of his butt. I don't know when he stopped being truthful with me - maybe before he even got his powers, I don't know. But I never stop giving him the benefit of the doubt. I never fully lost my trust in him. Funny how that works."

I slip out of the bed and walk softly to the door. I had already decided a few moments ago to come clean. But how I could possibly explain, I don't know how…

"It is funny," Happy deadpans. He doesn't seem amused at all. Mostly confused. I know he's upset that I stole his badge. After all he's done for me, I go and violate that trust like it was nothing.

May sighs. "I still plan on just confronting him about it. No one ever raised a teenager successfully by tiptoeing around the consequences. But I least I gave him a shot, y'know?"

I tap slightly on the doorframe and step out, feeling awkward and emotionally worn. "I need to tell you something," I say abruptly. "I owe you both an apology."

They don't reply. They both look surprised that I didn't actually fall asleep in less than five seconds, but somehow expectant.

"I stole your badge, Happy, I'm so sorry," I say awkwardly. "I messed up. After all you've done for me, it was a super douchey thing for me to do. I am really sorry. I snatched it off your belt when you walked by me."

"Walked by you WHEN?" Happy snaps, less out of anger and more out of pure disbelief that I managed to get something off his belt while he's such a careful man by nature.

"Uh - I hid - under a reception desk?" I confessed, squinting like one of those guilty Youtube dogs that got caught destroying paper products.

"I knew it," Happy says, more to an imaginary fourth wall than me.

"What the crap, Peter?" May looks utterly baffled. "Stealing? Come on. Didn't I teach you better than that?"

"What'd you need it for?" Happy asks. "You know if you wanted the full tour I would have given you one. I mean, later, after you recovered. I know you haven't seen much of the place except the visitor's entrance and the media reception area and there is a lot going on - but that doesn't mean you can't ask."

I take a deep breath and unleash the verbal kraken.

"I really wanted to fill in some memory gaps," I erupted, "...so I waited till I saw you locking up for the evening then I hid under the counter and took your badge when you went by - it was super dumb of me and I am so sorry and I can make up for it somehow so I got into the lab and used the AI to log into the systems and I know it's just the stupidest thing ever but it's not like I was going to keep it a secret anyway because I already know the shift manager is going to get like an email alert that someone logged in after hours and so I watched it and passed out and I realized I couldn't leave the garbage bag so I took them all out to the janitor's closet..."

"Whoa, Peter, sweetheart," May puts her hands on either shoulder and then runs her hands up and down my upper arms, trying to make me calm down. "Just - slow down. Okay? Slow down. Also, you're freezing. Why don't we go back in and sit down?"

May pushes me back into the room and sits me down on the futon, wrapping her blanket around me. She brushes some hair away from my forehead. It feels damp.

"You don't look so good," she says slowly. "Mr. Hogan, will you get a cup of water for him please?"

Happy huffs over to the sink and fills a paper cup with a tap water.

"I don't want water," I find myself saying irrationally. "I want to say I am sorry for stealing Happy's badge and lying about it..."

"I hear you," Aunt May replies, accepting the cup from Happy and holding it loosely towards me. "I'm going to need you to try again though. A little slower. What exactly did you do with Mr. Hogan's badge?"

I accept the cup of water but I don't drink it. "I got into one of the IT rooms where they were reviewing the footage from the baby monitor program," I say, with the same word vomit as before, but without exceeding recommended speed limits. "...and I used what was left of my AI drive to hack into a guest account and then I... watched it." I look down at my water with shame.

"You... watched it," Happy intones doubtfully.

"You watched your abduction footage?" May repeats.

"All of it?" Happy asks.

I can barely nod. "Yes."

"Jesus, kid," Happy responds. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I didn't really remember all of what happened and I didn't know who hurt me," I say slowly. "And I needed to find out."

"But why?" Aunt May asks.

"Not knowing wasn't an option for me," I say shortly.

"For goodness sake," Aunt May exclaims. "Why didn't you just ask Mr. Stark to see the police report?"

"I wasn't going to press charges," I say in a small voice, "I didn't think about it."

"I READ IT," Aunt May adds. "You could have just asked me!"

"I didn't think," I repeat. "I didn't think."

I can almost hear the record scratch sound as Aunt May processes my first attempt to explain, running through the words in her head and coming to the one she didn't notice before.

"Did you say that you passed out?" she asks slowly. "Earlier? Did I hear you right?"

I can't stop it before it happens - it's childish - pathetic, even. A lip tremble, and a voice wavering to accompany it. Even so, I try to disguise the unwelcome tears with a laugh, which only sounds like a pathetic little huff. "It was really gross to watch," I try to say with a smile, but it's not a smile. Not even close.

"Yeah - that's not - uh, gonna fly here?" Happy says with a horrified expression, as if someone just asked him what day of the month to expect Christmas. He holds a phone up to his ear. "If you passed out we're calling your doctor back here. That's not normal. You don't look so good, kid, anyway. Ya look like you're running a temp - doesn't he look like he's running a temp? He's running a temp. Uh huh." I realize somewhere in the trifecta of saying temp over and over, he actually called someone. I really hope it's not Stark. "He's looking really pale and clammy. He isn't drinking any water."

"I said I'm not thirsty," I attempt, setting the cup on the table. The thought of drinking water is making me nauseous.

Aunt May wraps her arms around me gently, pulling me in for one of those warm hugs that I might ordinarily squirm away from. Not now. "Why would you go and do a thing like that?" she whispers in my ear.

"I dunno," I reply, my mouth muffled by her hair. "It was dumb."

"And you haven't been sleeping at all?" she pulls back and ascertains me with a critical eye. "That would have been several hours worth..."

"I think it was about five hours or something, yeah," I say, trying to think of it in a clinical sense. "Uh - yeah. Just a lot of videos. Watched through them all. It wasn't... yeah. That's what I did."

"And you fainted?"

I nod numbly. "I threw up. And then I couldn't stop hyperventilating and then I passed out."

"What would've happened if you had fallen and ripped open your wounds?" May scolds. "What if you bled out all night on the floor of some random-ass computer storage room and we couldn't find you? And you died? Did you think about that?"

"No."

"Peter you can't keep doing this to me. God, you can't." She puts her hands on either side of my face. "Do you understand? I can't take it." I nod numbly, and she softens. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Ground me?"

May shakes her head. "If you think I'm grounding you after what you've been through, you're nuts."

"Aunt May," I reply, "I am so sorry. I don't deserve you."

"Oh, stop that. I am not even going to try and understand why you'd want to see that video - it boggles my mind, Peter. Just screws it right up. I can't imagine."

"It was..." I struggle to piece my thoughts together. "It… sucked."

Aunt May shakes her head. "If you did not understand the full extent of your injuries when the doctor's explained in medical terms, you sure as hell do now."

I touch my side again, and an overwhelming blossom of pain slowly presses in from the shape of my hand, and spreads up my ribs and into my chest. I feel like I'm getting stepped on by horses - if I could imagine such a feeling. I feel suddenly overly sensitive to smell, Iike I can smell the ripeness of any bandages touched by sweat. A sort of odor comes from the knife wound, and I imagine it smells sort of green and red. Back to the Christmas metaphors. That's not a good sign, right?

I start to feel the swarm of dizziness close in, like drawing curtains over the surround sound so that I only hear in the shape of circles, instead of omnipresence. I feel heat tingle at the top of my head and pour down my spine and arms like a science fair volcano on overload. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and I think I feel the pillow next to me slowly rise in the air of its own accord.

"Peter, honey."

"I don't feel good." I touch the pillow, and it feels cool on my face.

"I know," Aunt May says slowly. "Can you open up your eyes for me, baby? Just look at me for a sec." There's a shuffle of movement and I hear Happy hit the button to summon a nurse.

"Yeah, well," he is saying on the phone, "Wake him up. Just to safe. He's on my watch. So yeah." He hangs up his cell phone, sounding annoyed as heck.

"Peter, come on honey. Look at me. Come on."

Sleeping is where I'm safe. Where I can stop thinking for a little while.

"Peter Parker," I feel Aunt May's hand grip my face and gently pat either side of my cheeks. "Don't you pass out on us again."

I blearily open my eyes. I feel so weird. Not awake, and not asleep. In between. My brain stepped out of my body and observes with casual indifference, and despite being fuzzy and losing its sense of self, I feel like I am seeing everything with strangely sharp detail. I am laying back on the futon, my head on her pillow, my legs still crookedly hanging over the side. Aunt May is leaning on top of me, a hand on either side of my face.

"Don't you dare." May is saying. "Stay awake, okay?"

"I'm just really tired!" I exclaim, awkwardly loud and abruptly.

"Honey, I think your temperature is running a little high. And you're probably dehydrated. I knew taking you off the IVs overnight was a bad idea."

I moan. "I feel super weird. Like, uh, just... a mess."

"You are a mess. But you're my mess." Aunt May keeps running her fingers through my hair. She may think that having greasy hair sometimes is just something that teenager boys have, but from my experience, it's because she can't freaking keep her hands out of it.

"Did you hit your head?" she asks gently. "When you fainted before? Do you remember?"

"No," I reply. "I was already sitting down. I didn't fall. I don't even remember the fainting part. I just remember waking up from it. Thas'sall."

I feel a bubble of air slide up my throat. I lean over and gag slightly, swallowing one, two, three times consecutively. May rubs my back with sympathy.

"You gonna throw up again?" she asks.

I shake my head no. But I don't answer. Just the movement sent the room rocking back and forth like the view from a fishing boat on stormy waters. The nurse walks in and Aunt May stands up to step out of the way. Her warmth is replaced by an instantaneous chill.

"Good morning Mr. Parker," says the nurse, the same pretty middle-aged woman in lavender scrubs. This time it's just the lavender shirt - she's wearing pajama bottoms with little snowmen on them. She probably has quarters nearby and is losing a good night's sleep on account of me.

"I don't know if you remember me," she says. "We've interacted a few times since you came in. My name is Rose. Or Rosie, if you like."

"Hi Rosie," I squawk.

"You feelin' pretty bad, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Pain on a scale of one to ten?"

I think back to the basement, and shudder. "Probably a two."

"Two we can manage, can't we?" Rosie says comfortingly. "Talk to me about what's going on."

"He almost passed out a second ago, fell right over," May explains. "He's chilled and dehydrated, I think. He hasn't been sleeping at all," she gives me a sort of stern glare. "Unfortunately he's been wandering around the building getting into things he shouldn't be."

Rosie leans back and holds my wrist loosely, checking my pulse.

"He's nauseous right now," Aunt May continues, her eyebrows furrowing with worry. "He did say he fainted and threw up earlier when he was off... exploring. About what time would you say that happened, Peter?"

"I don't know," I answer, "Maybe... one a.m.? Two a.m.? I don't remember. I'm sorry."

"But he didn't hit his head," Aunt May adds. "That's a good thing, right?"

"Mhm," Rosie gently pushes her fingers into the sides of my neck, avoiding the bandage on the knife wound. She runs a tiny temperature gauge across my forehead, one of the newer kinds that look like something out of Star Trek. "Do you still feel dizzy?"

I don't answer. I feel like my head is too heavy on my neck, lolling off to the side. I watch Happy's shape disappearing out the door like a big black bear in a nature documentary.

"Peter?" Rosie repeats.

"I don't feel good," I mumble.

"Think you can sit up for us?"

I blink a few times and widen my eyes, trying to tune in to them. It doesn't help the blur through the static. "Nope-nope."

"Okay, then you stay," Rosie gets up and walks back to the IV stand. When she starts to pull it towards us, one of the tiny wheels swings the wrong way. She has to wrestle it a little, like a runaway shopping cart, to get it where it needs to go. She looks very confused as to why a state of the art facility like this has an IV stand functioning like a vehicle from Mario Kart.

Aunt May lets out an unfortunate snicker, and then sobers immediately. "I'm sorry," she says hastily, "I'm - not awake right now. I'm very tired. Let me help you with that, I wasn't thinking."

She and Rosie push the IV back towards the futon, the wheels making horrible squeaky sounds. Rosie holds my left arm down on the blanket, re-inserting the IV into my forearm, about halfway between the inner elbow and the wrist.

"Your aunt is right," she narrates as she starts hooking up everything else, the heart monitor is back on, the pulse thing on my finger, "...you're dehydrated. And exhausted. I mean - aside from the other brutal injuries you're recovering from. I don't know what possessed you to go exploring." She glances apologetically at Aunt May. "Sorry - It's not my place."

"No, please," Aunt May says too eagerly. "Be my guest. Let him have it. Just.. gently."

Rosie turns back to me. "All right, then," she says sternly, adding one final piece of humiliation - the plastic nasal cannula around my head with the tiny end piece in each nostril.

"I'm the medical professional, here, and I expect my patients to listen to my words."

I nod, properly shamed. I also didn't realize how hard I was working to take deep breaths until I had something helping me do it.

"So when I say you need rest and hydration, what do you think you should be getting?"

"Rest and hydration," I reply in a guilty monotone.

"That's right," Rosie answers. "All right - you should be feeling a few things by now. Let's go through them. Breathing?"

"Easy."

"Feel everything coming into that IV?"

"It's really cold."

"We'll get you some another blanket in a moment. How's the dizziness?"

"It's a little better." I put a hand to my head. "I don't feel... I don't know. I feel weird."

"That'll be your fever. Sometimes a little fever will pop up to fight off potential infections, so we're not actually going to try and get rid of it. But it does give us a heads up that something's going on. Make sense?"

I momentarily forget that Aunt May doesn't know any of the details and plow ahead. "If I was cut in multiple areas with a knife from a toolbox, how likely am I to get tetanus or something?"

Rosie sighs. "Stark's team cleared the area and tested all the... stuff... that was found there. Nothing was contaminated, if that's what you mean."

"He kept this knife with him," I say, my voice wobbling slightly. "He... uh... p-p-put it in his pocket... and left with it..."

"Jesus," Aunt May says under her breath.

Rosie lays her hand on my forehead once more. "I'm real sorry you went through all that, honey. Let's not think about it for now. We focus on one problem at a time."

"Yeah... okay," I reply.

"Feel good enough to stand up?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"All right, lean on my arm then. Up ya go!" Rosie lets me use my own weight to sit up slowly. I brace myself on her arm and she stands, letting me take my time in standing with her. She's a short, plump person, but I am still surprised at myself for being taller than her.

Somehow, inner me does a fist pump and thinks Hell yeah - growth spurt! It's about time.

I'm barely halfway to the bed before I turn a little too quickly and look at May in a panic.

"Aunt May," I say urgently. "Can I use your phone? I… I forgot… I need to text Ned."

Aunt May looks at me a little too calmly. "I'm afraid to ask... what happened to your phone. I don't suppose... your... uh... abductor took it, did he?"

"No," I say quickly, refocusing on the task at hand. Rose points with a no-nonsense expression at the bed. I get into it slowly, and she pushes the IV stand back to the left side. Aunt May jogs up to my right and starts to tuck the blankets around me like I'm five.

"It melted. In the fire."

Aunt May stops. "What fire?"

Rose quickly steps over to the monitor in the corner and starts filling in notes on my chart.

"Y'y'know... uh... the fire. In Manhattan," I answer.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she exclaims, stepping back and giving me the same look Michelle gave me about two and a half weeks ago.

When life was simple... and I got really excited about the fact that when an electron meets a positron they destroy each other.

"And two photons will just, blast out of the energy! In a flash bang!" I said loudly.

"We will never be cool," bemoaned Ned.

Yeah... Michelle wasn't really impressed either.

I mean... photons. Quarks. It's... exciting stuff.

Michelle knew exactly what I was talking about, too. She's on the decathlon team, after all. She just wasn't excited about it so much that she had to randomly spout off facts like we were at a competition. We weren't. We were in chemistry class.

"You forgot to press the buzzer first," she had said, deadpan.

I looked for a buzzer confusedly, and then realized what she meant.

"Har, har," I had replied.

"Peter!" Aunt May exclaims.

"Uh - I thought I texted you," I reply lamely.

Aunt May frustratingly whips out her phone and opens the message app. "Oh - you mean THIS?" she begins to read out loud. "Rescuing kittens from trees and old ladies from burning buildings - don't worry, I'm FIREPROOF? You mean THIS text?"

"Yeah?"

She slams it onto the little table attached to the side of the hospital bed, takes a deep breath, and massages her temples.

"My dear - sweet - boy," she says, "You - are not - replaceable. Phones are. Of course you can borrow my phone temporarily."

She slides it slowly across the table. "I am very tired. And I am very upset. I keep forgetting that you are here safe, and I've been waking up all night in an absolute panic that you're still missing - and I've lost you." She throws her hands in the air. "And yet I didn't roll over once and see you were gone from your bed. What's the irony of that? - don't answer," she holds up a finger. "So you left to save old ladies from burning buildings and wound up... abducted by a psychopath. Is this what I am going to have to worry about every time you go out to fight crime?"

I shake my head, but she continues. "Save a cat from a tree, lose a limb. Save a kid from a car accident, get robbed and shot. Save an old lady - kidnapped. Is that how this will go?" Aunt May puts a hand on my lower leg and squeezes gently, avoiding my eyes. "Can I ever let you go again without having an effing heart attack?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

Aunt May wipes her nose with the back of her hand and still refuses to meet my eyes. She looks at Rose, who has been pretending to look busy for far too long. "So. What's next?"

"Both of you need to get the hell to sleep," Rose answers loudly. "Sleep, sleep sleep. I'm going to touch base with Mr. Hogan outside a moment, he was calling your doctor. My guess is he will be here in the morning to check on you..." she glances at the clock. "Well. Later this morning. Probably when the sun is up. We'll see how you do with a little sleep and fluids. I'm going to recommend a few hours. Remember, I'm just a button press away."

"Thank you for everything," Aunt May tries to cover a yawn. "We'll take your advice." She slowly sits back on her futon, looking a little lost.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," she plasters on a smile for me. "You?"

"I mean... yeah. Now I am. I will be."

"Larb you," she says.

"I larb you too."

I really do larb you, too.

When the lights are out, I wait for Aunt May to fall asleep. I can tell by her breathing in the cot next to me. When it slows and deepens, I scroll through her phone and open a message conversation with Ned. There are already texts there.

* * *

You - Ned, are you with Peter?

Ned - No ma'am

You - Are you lying to cover for him for some reason?

Ned - No I swear. why, is he not home yet?

You - No

You - It's been several hours, he was supposed to be home ages ago

You - you promise he's not with you

Ned - Promise

Ned - um

Ned - he's not answering his phone or my texts

You - mine either.

You - I'm sure it's nothing... just losing track of time while beating some mugger up

Ned - ...

Ned - what r u talking about he's probably studying

Ned - chemistry

Ned - biology

Ned - physics

Ned - PE

Ned - math

Ned - ...

Ned - high school is SO hard :(

You - funny. really funny.

You - OR

You - he's in bright red spandex trying to save patrons in a bank robbery

Ned - WHAT NO

Ned - Peter would never do that

Ned - if anything he's the bank robber

Ned - robbing from... the rich... and giving to the poor?

You - ...

You - ...

You - Seriously?

You - I know about the spider-man thing.

You - so cut it out.

Ned - shit I forgot you found him out and grounded him I'm so sorry I totally forgot you knew

You - did Peter tell you you're grounded too?

Ned - Yes :(

You - you're ungrounded if you tell me where he is right now

Ned - May I swear I have no idea

Ned - I don't know where he is

Ned - I'd totally tell you if I did

Ned - you're freaking me out

Ned - Should I be worried

Ned - I should be worried

Ned - he left school at the normal time

Ned - that's the last time I saw him

Ned - I'll call you if he texts me back?

You - Please do.

Ned - will you let me know if he comes home? Maybe its dead cell phone battery?

You - Yes. Let's hope

* * *

[several hours later]

* * *

Ned - have you heard from Peter yet?

Ned - ...

Ned - ...

Ned - anything...?

Ned - hello?

Ned - I haven't heard from him either

* * *

[Wednesday morning]

* * *

Ned - hey May just wondering if you've seen Peter yet

Ned - Peter's not in school today

Ned - just letting you know

Ned - hello?

* * *

[Wednesday night]

* * *

Ned - so I went ahead and stopped by your apt after school and no one is home

Ned - r u out looking for Peter? I can help - is this like a serious thing? or a miscommunication?

You - everything is OK for now, Ned. I'm so sorry, I just charged up my phone today. Peter is with me now - sorry I can't talk right now

Ned - ok...?

Ned - r u guys ok? r u home now?

You - we're not home

Ned - is everything ok?

You - hon I'm sorry I can't talk right now; everyone is fine, we're going to be fine

* * *

I feel badly for Ned - for May - even myself, to a point.

Aunt May probably didn't realize that Ned might have been able to check his phone history for the one and only time he called Happy during the homecoming dance - he could have called him again. Aunt May wouldn't have put the two and two together, otherwise she would have asked Ned for his number, and saved herself the trouble of trying a Stark industry customer service line.

I feel so badly for Ned wondering where we were and why we weren't communicating. I check the timing of the last few texts - Aunt May sent the last one while she was standing in the hallway talking with Happy. I can just see it now - me posing by the door frame being a total sneak, Happy telling her this story, May distractedly fishing her phone out of her pocket, typing back a curt reply, and replacing the phone in her pocket with just enough time to realize that Happy was implying I stole his badge.

There are so many little things that could have gone differently. But I'll drive myself crazy if I try to think of all the what-ifs.

I tap out a quick phrase on her phone and send it to Ned.

* * *

You - dunno if you're awake - This is Peter. I'm borrowing May's phone.

* * *

There's a long pause. I don't know that Ned's awake at this point. It's the zero hour. I stayed up all night watching those stupid videos... he's going to set his alarm for the minimal amount of time to get ready for school and not a second more. Unless he's worried and has his phone turned up...

Finally, an ellipsis appears. He's typing back.

* * *

Ned - How do I know it's really you and not some super villain who has taken both of you hostage and now it's up to me to save you

You - It's me

Ned - tell me something ONLY Peter knows

You - You wet the bed once because you had a dream that Jar Jar Binks was your dad

Ned - Holy shit it is you

Ned - where have you been

Ned - what the hell happened?

You - long story buddy

You - I can't write it all down

Ned - where are you?

You - the avengers complex

Ned - HOLY SPITBALLS NO KIDDING? AGAIN? ARE YOU ACCEPTING tHE OFFER THIS TIME

You - No

You - ...

You - ...

You - ...

You - ...

Ned - you keep typing and then not typing and its driving me crazy!

Ned - are you OK?

You - ...

You - ...

You - no

Ned - what happened?

You - Miss you, pal!

Ned - I miss you too? It's only been two days though? What happened?

You - I don't even know where to begin

Ned - where did you go after school yesterday, May was freaking out

You - Just spiderman stuff

Ned - Ok

Ned - then what

You - then I was sort of abducted by a psycho and tortured for several hours and then was let go and had to come here to recover in hiding

Ned - ...

Ned - ...

Ned - ...

Ned - WHAT?

You - uhhh yeah

Ned - YOU'RE JOKING RIGHT

You - I wish

Ned - R U OK THO SERIOUSLY

You - I'm ok now I guess

Ned - you[re seriously kidding right!111!

You - no

Ned - holy shit dude

You - yeah

Ned - OK wait what do you mean 'sort of' abducted and tortured

Ned - like... no food and water tried to a chair in a blue cell with a single spot light shining in your eyes? like FBI questioning sort of abducting?

You - no

You - more like... Lando betraying Han Solo to Boba Fett

You - and the pit of despair

You - maybe a Saw movie

Ned - I'm not allowed to see the Saw movies :(

You - actually me either now that I think about it?

You - I never wanted to see it, it's not really my kind of movie

Ned - yeah me either I mean no wookie no watchie

You - exactly!

* * *

There's a pause. He types a few times, backspaces, tries again. I don't know what else to say either. I wait.

* * *

Ned - dude

Ned - like

Ned - i don't know what else to say

Ned - but you're OK now

Ned - I mean, you're like, with Thor and Stark and the Hulk and Captain America -

You - none of the above

You - More like... doctors and nurses and Aunt May and Happy

Ned - that's like serious stuff

You - yeah...

Ned - dude...

You - dude i know

Ned - I'm like tripping out

You - me too

Ned - Love you, brother

You - love you too. I'm gonna pass out now

Ned - WAIT LIKE SERIOUSLY

Ned - SHIT

Ned - WHAT DO I DO

You - OMG NO IM SORRY

You - I meant sleep

You - I meant sleeping, I'm going to sleep

Ned - Jesus

You - I KNOW

Ned - shit dude

You - SORRY

Ned - NO I'M SORRY

Ned - I'll take notes for you at school

Ned - I can bring homework to you

You - I think I'm coming home tomorrow but thanks - notes would be good tho

Ned - what's the story?

You - flu bug.

Ned - that's it?

You - yeah it's sort of dumb - hopefully my face looks better

Ned - ...

Ned - ...

Ned - what's wrong with your face?

You - just… busted up

Ned - :(

You - I'm fallingg asleep typing g2g

Ned - k

Ned - night brotha - text me tomorrow PLS

* * *

I put the phone down on the table beside me, curl up agains the pillow. I smile at the phone like an idiot. Everyone needs a Ned like mine.

...

...

* * *

...

...

* * *

 **Coming Up Next: Well, let's just say it's the character you've all been waiting for... *ahem* (puts on $2000 sunglasses)**


	19. Promises

...

Dearest readers,

I am back to posting regularly because wonderful reviewers have reminded me that I left you high and dry here. I am SO sorry! Expect awesome content because I'll make it happen!

Much love and hugs, Pip

...

* * *

...

Nineteen: Promises

...

* * *

...

...

When I wake up, the sun is streaming through the window. It makes me antsy.

I slip out of bed, carefully taking a step to check the cot - Aunt May is still sound asleep.

Good. I've put her through an emotional psychological hell the last 48 hours. She deserves the extra rest.

The window beckons to me. I imagine swinging through the air, the cold snap of frost on a fall morning, before the big whoosh of cold air when I get out of the spaces between buildings and finally get to the top of a skyscraper, the freedom of standing on the edge and not worried about falling.

I can almost see the New York skyline. A bright, cerulean blue, cloudless, and the Avenger's tower now just... another tooth in the long mouth of Manhattan. If I really concentrate, I can imagine everything that happened was just a bad, bad dream...

"Huh," I whisper out loud, noticing the actual view, not the one I'm daydreaming about.

Manicured grounds outside the facility, well-structured sidewalks winding between trees and a parking lot with a lot of... vans. The SHIELD-looking kinds.

And then there's Vision... running laps. He does this a lot apparently. Does he get bored easily? Does he even need to work out? Isn't he... synthetic? Does he sleep? The magenta and gold of his - skin - or suit, I don't even know - is glinting in the sun. He's also running a lot faster than normal humans. It's eerie but totally fascinating.

"Ahem."

I turn around and Tony Stark is standing in the open door. He looks like he's already bought out a few million dollar companies before breakfast.

He begins to open his mouth, and in a panic, I wave one arm wildly from side to side, press a finger to my lips, and then point at Aunt May.

Mr. Stark looks down at her, then back at me, as if weighing the dangers of waking her up.

I fold my hands and make a PLEASE? Motion.

"You," he mouths, without actually saying it out loud. He points at me, points in the hall, each movement precise and robotic. His mouth is stern as he adds silently, "Now."

Oh shit, Happy already told him. He knows I watched the videos and stole his badge. I am so busted. I am going to get fired from... well, everything. Or just never get hired. Ever.

Head down with shame, I start to walk towards him, and get a tug at the end of my IV. With a sigh, I return to the stand, grab it by the middle, and wheel it along with me. I must look so pathetic.

The cockeyed wheel squeaks so loudly I'm afraid it'll wake Aunt May up - but it doesn't. She's in another plane of existence entirely even as I squeak by her, finally hitching the wheel over the frame edge and onto the carpeted hall.

For a moment, Mr. Stark just stares at me with a completely unreadable expression.

"Hey," I say, sort of breathlessly. "Uh..."

"Shhhffft," he makes a sort of shushing noise and waves me onward, to follow him down the hallway a few feet, away from the open door. He points at the chair Happy was sleeping in last night.

"You," he says. "Sit."

I obey, looking down at at the IV in my arm.

A handwritten note on post-it paper flutters into my eyeline and lands in my lap.

* * *

Sorry for all the garbage bags by your housekeeping cart, but I didn't know where the dumpster was. Hopefully this helps?

Thanks!

Your Friendly Neighborhood Trash Guy

* * *

Oh, that's me. My handwriting.

This was the note I wrote for the janitors to find when I spontaneously emptied the entire IT office of their trash bags. Of course now in hindsight I realize I was completely delirious and running a fever because in what universe would that be the sneaky thing to do?

I am such an IDIOT.

"Friendly neighborhood trash guy?" Mr. Stark reads out loud, his voice on the more malicious side of sarcasm.

I don't respond.

"Do you think that we're all idiots here?"

"Uh - no."

"Did you somehow think we weren't going to know who hacked the system?"

"I didn't really..."

"Did you think we wouldn't know if someone was on a monitor after hours?"

"The manager got the email this morning at 8 AM," I sigh. "I know..."

"How did you know tha..." Mr. Stark stops. "You know what - no. You don't get the satisfaction of my asking. I can assume if you rigged your AI to do a bunch of shit for you, you can get a heads up on alert policies. Great. Wonderful. You broke into a highly secured area and tricked your AI into giving you data without hacking the real servers. Congratulations. Is that what you wanted?"

I shrug. I'm just going to take this for now. I deserve it.

"Is, it," Mr. Stark repeats, each word severe. "What - you - wanted?"

"I guess."

"I'm gonna need you to look at me," Mr. Stark says, so quickly the words all sort of blend together. I don't, though. I pretend to memorize the patterns of bruises on my arms that already look like they're a week or more old. That rapid healing thing sure is helpful…

"Hey. Big shot. Turn those baby browns up here for a second."

I look up. "What?" I ask, a little more tersely than necessary.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

I hold my gaze as steadily as I can. "Yeah."

"Was it worth it?"

I shrug again.

"No - that won't cut it. I need an answer. Now."

I would imagine this is what normal kids call Dad mode. Papa Bear. About to get grounded, or maybe smacked within an inch of my life? Been there, done that.

"Why?" I ask.

"Why what?"

"Why do you need an answer?" I ask, part of me screaming at myself for not giving a clear response, the other part of me upset - at him - for being upset at all.

"Why?" Mr. Stark repeats in a very sarcastic, affected tone. He whips his glasses off the bridge of his nose and if he needs them gone in order to see into my psyche. "You don't need to know why. You. Are. A. Teenager. I do not need to explain my why. When I ask a question, you give me an answer."

He wags his finger back and forth between us. "This is how this little mentor-mentee relationship is going to work." He slams his glasses back on his face. "Let's try this again. From the top. What were you doing?"

This gives me pause.

"...using the monitor? I thought? Wasn't I?" I tilt my head. "Wait - did I screw something up? Did I like - turn on an electric beacon that summons aliens to Earth or alert the government to Captain America's whereabouts or..."

"Stop," Mr. Stark holds up a hand. "Just - chill a second. What were you using the monitor for?"

A metaphorical light bulb goes off over my head. "Happy didn't tell you."

"Happy called me this morning and said you decided to show yourself around the facility last night and use a computer. I was considering revoking all of your privileges - yes, AGAIN - even as far as taking your suit back for the second time - but he said you screwed up your own recovery as a result, so, I took a rain check." Mr. Stark crosses his arms over his chest. "Consider this a merciful conversation we are now having."

"Yes, sir," I mumble quietly, looking down. "Thanks."

"Do you still feel like shit?"

"Yeah."

"Well, then, all right." Mr. Stark's shoulders lose some of the tension. "Maybe next time you listen to the grown-ups and stay the hell in bed when you're told to."

I nod... and he waits.

"I was watching the baby monitor footage," I confess.

"You what?" He asks this in a monotone - the kind that surpasses any normal level of disbelief.

So I was right. Happy didn't out me. Considering my stealing his badge, it's an oddly generous thing for him to do. Maybe he was giving me another chance - yet again - to just be a good person and try honesty on for size.

"You did WHAT?" Mr. Stark repeats.

"I watched the videos."

"How did you... how?" His eyelids flutter like he's trying to reason with himself, and physically can't. "Which videos?" he asks suspiciously, hoping he's wrong.

I shift uncomfortably. "The videos from Tuesday night."

"What the hell, kid?" he walks abruptly down the hall a few paces, turns, and marches back. "First off - why? Secondly - why the HELL? Thirdly - what the f... how the..."

He stops and muddles his voice, making a sort of "MIND BLOWN!" motion with his hands at his temples, accompanied by a pwwwoooossshhttt sound.

"Seriously - I'm - I'm at a loss for words. And that, kid, never happens. Usually never happens." He shakes the fog away. "What the HELL were you thinking?"

I wasn't thinking, obviously.

He bends down so he's balancing on the back of his heels, crouching in order to meet my cleverly aimed gaze so that I could avoid exactly this.

"Look," he says gruffly, "I tried to watch the videos - I told you this. I couldn't get through it - I was sick. Sickened. If you watched some... and felt..."

"All," I corrected.

"What?"

"I watched all of them."

"Jesus," Mr. Stark stands again, and then rethinks this, and grabs another chair against the wall. He drags it across the carpeted hall and pushes it next to mine, flips the back of his nice suit out just ever-so-slightly so it doesn't get crinkled against the wall, and sits down beside me. In a moment he, with some hesitancy and nearly in slow motion, pats my knee. "I'm not good at this part of the job..." he begins.

"The mentor/mentee thing?" I offer meekly.

"Yeah, that part. Where I actually mentor. Thanks for the reminder."

"I didn't mean..."

"It's fine," he pats my knee again and withdraws his hand. "I'm not a mental health doc. I don't know what to say. Nothing correct, or won't scar you for life. But I'm assuming watching those videos probably took care of that part."

"Maybe."

"What exactly were you planning on doing with this... knowledge? What's the point?"

"I just wanted to know what happened," I reply weakly. "That's all."

"Not some sort of - revenge spree, going after him in the middle of the night..."

"It's NOT like that," I reply fiercely.

"Just double checking - I can do that, right? I can't think of any other damn reason you'd want to watch that." He suddenly remembers something from earlier, and gets huffy about it. "And I'm shocked Happy didn't out you."

"He keeps giving me second chances," I mumble. "I stole his badge to access the tech room, so, I owe everyone an apology for that. But mostly him. After all he's done to help me - it was just - not good. I shouldn't have done that."

"That's not a big deal," he answers, looking at his nails as if bemoaning a lack of manicure.

"It seemed like it was a few minutes ago," I say, a little frustrated. "I thought you were mad."

"Not mad - no - I'm furious. Furious that you'd wander around a facility at night and make yourself sick with it. That's what I'm angry about. I can't be there to pick you up every time you break. And you keep breaking. Make sense?"

I don't answer. It does, so I nod.

"When the hell did you find time to play housekeeper...?" he asks, holding his hands in the air and then slamming them down on his knees again, completely baffled. "Friendly neighborhood trash guy? Come on."

"I - well - I was - there was a - a part that was really hard to watch, and I had a panic attack, and I felt sick, and I threw up - and then I - passed out," I mumble the last part. "So I thought I should clean up after myself."

"Jesus Christ. So you wake up on the floor - and then what? You're first instinct is to take out the garbage?"

"Yeah?" I'm confused. "I can't just leave that... in there? It's gross?"

"But you..." Mr. Stark pinches the bridge of his nose and fights off an inappropriately timed chuckle. "God. I will - never - understand - lawful good. I just don't."

"Were the janitors mad?" I question, truly confused.

"Of course not! Not when Santa Claus does everything for them overnight," Mr. Stark swallows his laughter. "Did you hurt yourself?" he questions, soberly. "Passing out like that?"

"Not - really. Just messed myself up a little. Fluids and sleep took care of it, I swear. I'm okay now. Really."

"What if you weren't?"

"Huh?"

"So what if we found you barely breathing and bleeding to death the next morning? Where does that leave your aunt? Your nerdy pals at school? Happy and I? We've grown sort of attached to you, you know. We want to keep you around for a long time." He sighs. "I've really gotten over the parts where we find you half-dead in random places. I don't have a heart condition, well - anymore - but I could certainly get myself another one."

He subtly checks his watch. A fancy watch on his wrist, the kinds that look like the famous kinds that cost thousands of dollars, but not any brand a person would recognize. It's the type of watch he can speak into and summon a whole army of Iron-Men, or press a button and instead of showing military time, an arm guard and palm-rockets appear out of the thick wristband.

Something about that gesture makes me feel... annoyed. Like I'm annoying him by taking up too much of his time.

"Hey," he says, rather tenderly, noticing my side-eye and being surprisingly observant. "That's nothing. Just checking to see how close we are to breakfast. Are you hungry yet?"

"I could eat."

"Okay. Well. Good. That's better than yesterday. You seen the doc yet this morning?"

"Not yet."

"Once doc gives you the OK, we'll take Aunt May down to the kitchen. There should be some breakfast left."

I don't really know how to respond. "Yeah, okay. Sounds nice."

"Give me one thing, though, before your doc gets all poky and personal."

I laugh a little bit. "Sure, what?"

"I want a promise."

"What sort of promise?"

"Promise first."

"Okay - okay. I promise. What am I promising?"

"If you need to talk - about - the videos. What happened. Or why you watched them. Or what it makes you feel like doing - Or why you felt the need to put yourself through that - just - talk to me."

He notices my doubtful expression.

"I mean it. Even if it's something you're ashamed of - if this changes the way you think - or if you do something you regret. I'm not a priest, it doesn't have to be confessional. It doesn't even need to be a conversation. Just... give me a little... heads up. We'll chat. It's okay to try that. If you ever feel like it."

"...Thanks."

He places his hands on his knees like he's about to stand, but doesn't. He shifts, slightly, as if waiting to see if I say anything else.

I give in. "Mr. Stark - I just wanted to fill in the gaps. I didn't remember much."

He looks flummoxed. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"It made me feel powerless. Like it could happen again unless I knew the full story. And I needed to see what I did - if I did anything - that kept me living through it. In case I need to know how to do this again."

"Do 'this'? What's 'this'?"

"Live through something horrible. If it worked once..." I pause and take a deep breath, my voice trying to wobble. "It can work again. Does that make sense?"

"Sure, kiddo," Mr. Stark feels allowed to stand now. I follow his movements, and he stuffs a hand under my elbow to help me up the rest of the way. "That makes more sense than any other bullshit you may have tried."

"Sorry if it's... not what you wanted to hear."

"Screw what I wanted to hear," Mr. Stark squenches his eyebrows together. "As long as - as long as watching these didn't feed a murderous frenzy growing in your gut that takes you over and makes you do things you regret."

He sighs, and puts his hand on my shoulder, leaning and looking directly into my eyes. He's so close to me it makes me want to cringe. It's like those high school teachers trying to explain that they believe in your potential as long as you try harder.

"Speaking from experience, kid. Being captured and tortured - and held hostage - sometimes when you get out, you go completely berserk," Mr. Stark shakes his head, as if physically brushing off his own PTSD creeping back from the events that made him Iron-Man in the first place. "Sometimes good things will come out of it. Other times... well, you already have the healthy response of becoming a masked vigilante out of the way, so we can scratch that off the list."

He quickly removes his hand and straightens up. "If you feel like going the other way... any time. I'm just a phone call away. Understand?"

"I understand."

"That's where that promise comes in. You've got to keep that promise to me."

"I will."

Mr. Stark lets out a sigh of relief, and gestures to lead me back into my room. I follow his dark suit back through the door.

As easily as if someone played the baby monitor footage right beside me, I can hear Casey Cooper's voice taunting me.

"Hell's kitchen... you stay away from that place. You'd sooner end up dead in a gutter than come anywhere close to me."

Sorry Mr. Stark - therein lies my flaw. I'm not honest.

"That's where that promise comes in. You've got to keep that promise to me."

But I probably won't.

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 **Coming Up Next: Peter goes home and decides two things - one, he needs his backpack. Two, that newspapers are not a dying industry.**


	20. Exit Interviews

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Dearest readers,

Thank you for all your lovely reviews! I am back to posting this one regularly, you've all been so patient. Much love!

Hugs,

Pip

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Twenty: Exit Interviews

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Mr. Stark and Happy lead us out of the facility side by side, chatting - sort of nonsensically - to bridge the awkward gap of leaving the safety of my handlers and my unknown future. Or, as normal as it can get.

If anything, I would think Happy is better at chatting than Mr. Stark, since he still leads some semblance of a normal life with a normal job. It's the opposite. Happy is nodding with a sort of wide-eyed dazed look, sometimes grunting to show that he heard. Every so often he puts a hand to his bluetooth and says, "Say again. Boss interrupted."

"You ever tried them before? Impeccable," Mr. Stark is rattling on about… cuisine, craning his head to look at Aunt May every time Happy's attention is diverted. "The better ones come with the claw of the king crab draped over the side of the bowl. Just the one, though. A very expensive and delicious garnishment."

"Yeah, uh," Aunt May says with some dryness, "I must have missed that version since my last three hundred dollar meal was… never."

Mr. Stark whips his head around and gives her a wink. "I think after what you've been through, I owe you both a nice dinner."

"What you, uh, and Pepper going to have them over for all the cooking you can do?" Happy asks.

"Welcome back," Mr. Stark replies, affronted. "And no, I was thinking of sending them somewhere nice." He looks at me quickly. "Sans crime. Just waiters."

I let out a forced, polite chuckle as we reach the front doors. Happy pushes and holds them open for us.

"Listen, kid," Mr. Stark turns around. He looks like he wants to try and shake my hand, but clasps them behind his back, instead. "Remember what we talked about? If you - if you need anything. I'm a phone call away. So is Mr. Hogan."

"You can come back and see us anytime," Happy replies. "But not too soon, huh?" He opens the back of the car for us.

I stand awkwardly, shifting my weight from sore foot to sore foot. "I don't really know what to say," I hesitate. "I mean - thanks - for everything. For getting me. And bringing me here. If you hadn't gotten me here so quickly…"

"You might've died, yeah," Mr. Stark fills in uncomfortably. "But not yet, kid. Not for many, many, long years. Promise me you'll be careful out there." He finally reaches a hand out. I shake it, feeling younger than usual. Like I'm just a science geek meeting my hero and he is pulling from a list of phrases he uses for all of his fans. "Promise you won't, uh, do anything too spidery-related till we get you your suit back, yeah?"

"Okay. I mean, yeah. I promise."

"Remember your other promises," he lowers his gaze at me, in a sort of I dare you expression. He is recalling our conversation in the hallway before breakfast, but still keeping Aunt May in the dark about it. "None of that pajama nonsense," he adds.

Aunt May swivels her head to look at me. "You fought crime in pajamas before you had a suit?"

"No - not really, not like that," I exclaim, shooting a quick glare at Happy, who let out an unfortunate snort. He quickly looks away.

"Aha," Aunt May responds with a fake smile. "All right. Why don't you, um, get in the car, honey. I need a moment."

I give her a confused glance, but comply. "Oh, okay. Sure. Uh. Mr. Stark. Thanks - again. Really. I don't…" I pause and swallow a lump in my throat. "I'm just… gonna go." I slide into the back of the car, and Happy shuts the door.

For a moment the three of them stand just - talking. Even with enhanced hearing capabilities, the conversation is too muffled from inside this very fancy Audi. But it looks like they're making attempts to keep their voices lower for my behalf. Thanks, guys.

May reaches inside her purse, and Tony waves his hands at her, gently touching her wrist to make her stop doing whatever she is about to do.

She's still not trying to pay a bill, right?

She finally nods and gives the back seat a look. I know she can't see me, not through tinted windows. Happy gestures, walking around the back of the car and opening the passenger door. May follows him and gets in on the other side of me, sliding onto the leather seat and taking in the fanciness of it.

She makes a funny sound when she tests the comfortability of the seat, sort of a cross between an excited oooh and a doubtful huh. Happy gives her a confused look before shutting the door and trotting with a huffing expression to the driver's side.

A hand taps the window on my side. I roll it down and Mr. Stark leans in.

"Almost forgot," he says. "Heard your phone enjoyed some barbecue." He hands a box to me. "Something to tide you over till your next upgrade. This is a prototype - so - don't be leaving it every which way on bus seats or couch cushions or lockers."

"Is this a new phone?" I ask, way too excitedly, my voice squeaking every which way. I pull the lid off the box and examine the phone. Thin, and shiny, and labeled with - Stark Industries.

"This is so cool," I am gushing unashamedly. "Does it do the uh, uh, hologram thing? Like the consoles?" Just based on his expression, I am going to assume that's a definite no.

"Even - even so," I amend quickly, "This is - wow, this is amazing. Thank-you. This is great - really great." I start pressing the buttons on the side.

"We'll - uh - activate it at home," Aunt May says quickly with a sort of embarrassed laugh. She gently pats the back of my hand. "Thank you - Mr. Stark…"

"Please, it's Tony."

"Tony," May fixes. "Let us know… if… yeah. If there's anything you need." Her eyes flit towards me. Whatever they were talking about quietly, I am sure it had to do with protecting me from any future run-ins from Officer Casey Cooper.

Mr. Stark smiles, and gives a small drum beat on the car door with the palms of his hands. "Godspeed," he says lightly, straightening and stepping back up the steps.

"You ready back there?" Happy asks. "Seat-belts? Car doesn't move unless seat-belts are buckled."

Aunt May and I share a look and smile. I tug on the strap across my chest. It feels a little tight on the bruises - all that's left of the lacerations that had criss-crossed my entire chest. They could have been deadly cuts - and yet they weren't even going to leave scars. It took barely a day for my skin to knit itself back together and pretend none of this happened.

"We're ready," Aunt May answers. I start to roll up the window, watching Mr. Stark as I do so. He doesn't watch us leave. He marches up the stairs like a man on a mission, returning to the large glass doors leading into the reception area of the facility. I hope the next time I am here, I am pushing my way through those same doors, and not flying in like a torpedo in a glorified, robotic body bag.

At the last minute, Mr. Stark turns and looks at the car as Happy drives us down the long driveway. The expression on his face is steely, his brown eyes heavily burdened with exhaustion. I think what happened to me aged him.

Happy pulls the car up to the curb. Contrary to habits of the past, he hurries to open the door for Aunt May, and then for myself.

"Thanks," I say.

"Yeah," he replies quickly. He sort of has a funny look on his face, a redness that usually comes with embarrassment or - fear. Not a fear of danger, but a fear that looks like he doesn't want to get caught doing something weird. Like owning a vintage Captain America action figure. Which I totally don't have.

An extra sensory perception tingles on the back of my neck as I step out of the car and he shuts the door. I glance over my shoulder and see another car that matches ours has also pulled over, maybe thirty feet away. My head swivels towards Happy, and then in front of us, where there's another car - an exact match - which, too, is in the process of pulling over. A taxi honks at them and passes them illegally on the left.

"Happy," I begin.

He holds up a hand. "Not my idea," he says quickly.

"Is this for us?" May asks in some surprise, following my gaze back and forth.

Happy shrugs. "Top secret. Can't say."

"It's the same Audis from the complex," I say.

"An… an escort," Happy confesses.

"An escort just for us?" I say. "Really? That's - um - really nice - but isn't that sort of, a lot? Like expensive?"

He narrows his eyes at me and looks flummoxed. "So the security detail was supposed to be a secret. Big deal." he opens the driver's side door again, sliding into his seat. "Don't expect the rest will be so easy to spot."

"The rest?" Aunt May repeats.

Happy shuts the car door and slips on a pair of sunglasses. We stand in front of our apartment building watching him drive into the alley, back out quickly, and drive back down the road. The other two cars make slightly less subtle U-turns to follow him out. We punch in the code for our apartment and go through the front doors. As it swings shut behind us, Aunt May gives the street outside another once-over.

"So do we have secret service or not?" May asks.

I shrug. "I guess if we knew, it wouldn't be secret service, would it?"

May whips her head and looks at me, her eyes bugging before a smile takes over her face. "My boy made a cheesy joke. I am so proud."

"That's usually your job," I reply.

She wraps an arm around my shoulders and guides me towards the elevator. "You'll never forgive me for saying I larb you, will you?"

"It's growing on me, actually."

When we get upstairs she puts her hands on my shoulders and gives me a slight, but gentle, push towards my bedroom. "You - go - to - bed." she commands.

"You should get some sleep too," I say, shuffling along with resignation.

"I plan to. I'm going to make some food first. Whenever you're ready we can eat a late lunch - or an early dinner - whatever you like. Within reason."

I push my creaky door open and look at my room for the first time in three days.

It's different when you go on a trip - a comic con with Ned, or a scholastic decathlon - there's always some sign of hurried packing beforehand, usually an empty hamper, a few items tossed carelessly around, and a nicely made bed.

I walk into a room that I had expected to return to much, much sooner. The bed is messy and unmade, half-done homework on the desk. My backpack and my last school outfit are still webbed to a chimney on top of an apartment complex called Duck Pond Plaza three blocks from school. Unless someone found it. If they did… yikes, I am going to be in so much trouble - I can't believe I would need to ask Aunt May for third backpack in one year.

"Aunt May," I say, turning around and leaning my head out of my door.

She pops her head out of the kitchen, munching on a carrot. She's put her glasses on and she sort of looks like a rabbit. "Yeah, hun?" she responds.

"N-n-nothing," I say, changing my mind. Bad idea, Parker! Bad bad bad idea! "I'm just - my room is a mess. Sorry. Forgot to make my bed on Tuesday morning before school."

Considering I never made it home Tuesday evening because I was kidnapped and tortured, Aunt May puts this way, way, way at the bottom of her list of things to be upset about.

She crunches her carrot, looking dumbfounded at the confessional, and slightly pained.

"It's okay," she says slowly. "Just remember to do it Monday morning."

"Wait," I say, "You mean I don't have to go to school tomorrow morning?"

"I'm sorry," she pushes her glasses up on her nose, and pops the last half of the carrot in her mouth. "Do you think I'm a monster? Hell NO you're not going to school tomorrow."

A smile spreads across my face. I am not quite ready to go back yet.

"The flu is a bitch this time of year," she adds, playing up to the excuse we used for my absence. "I'm telling you."

That leaves tomorrow open for me to sneak out and get my backpack at some point. So I have it before Monday… at least maybe I can get some work done…

"I'll still do some work tomorrow, I'll just have to run get my backpack," I suggest carefully. "I'll text Ned and see if he can fill me in on some of the homework."

Aunt May gives me a warm smile, the phrase "run and get" slipping by her as I hoped it would. If she knew I'd be climbing up someone's wall - sans spider-uniform - she'd flip out.

"I think that's a smart choice," she nods. "I am SURE," she steps back into the kitchen and I hear a spoon tapping the side of a pot. "Your teachers will appreciate your effort. Just don't overdo yourself, okay?"

"I won't, I promise," I slowly step back in my room and shut the door quietly. How am I supposed to overdo myself, anyway? If I go back to school Monday, it means I am going back to school less than a week after getting kidnapped and tortured. That seems pretty overdone to me, but my accelerated healing jumpstarts ordinary life far sooner than if it happened to someone normal. Is this a good thing, or a bad thing? I don't know that I am ready to face my peers. Even if it's just as easy to keep this secret, of being abducted, as it is to keep a secret about wearing a red and blue uniform and stopping crimes.

I change into a clean pair of sweats and a T-shirt and slip into bed, taking the box from Mr. Stark with me. I unpack the new phone and begin playing around with it, sticking it on its charger and eagerly examining all the shiny features. Happy, Mr. Stark, and Aunt May's numbers are pre-programmed. Ned's number is still tacked to my bulletin board from when we first got cellphones, so I add his to the list of contacts and text him immediately.

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* * *

You - Hey, it's Peter. New phone.

Ned - New PHONE? I mean cool but hi? Where are you?

You - Home finally

Ned - what happened to the old phone

You - it melted

You - in a fire

Ned - WHAT

Ned - DUDE

Ned - So you're home just like that?

You - Yup I guess so

Ned - Did you accept the new suit this time

You - unless aliens attack New York again, no

You - or… if there's aliens. In general

You - I hope Mr. Stark's offer of a new suit was an open offer

Ned - like you change your mind and he says 'JK JK one time only'?

You - I hadn't even thought of THAT!

Ned - Sorry

You - It's fine! I'm just gona stick with the old one for now

You - Mr. Stark's fixing it

Ned - Fixing it from what?

You - well fire for starters

Ned - Oh yeah

You - and the whole sort of abduction thing

Ned - :(

Ned - do I want to know?

You - No

You - you really don't

Ned - Ok :(

You - I'm ok tho really

Ned - are you sure? Cuz I'm like imagining all this horrible stuff and how you're like texting me from your deathbed or something

You - It'd be really hard to text you on the verge of death

Ned - true

You - I'm home, I'm in bed - not dead

Ned - I can email some of my notes from this week

You - that's actually really nice

You - thanks man

Ned - anything for you spudman

You - …

You - … spudman?

Ned - auto correct

Ned - spudman

Ned - spudman

Ned - :(

You - maybe its best to just leave the actual name out anyway

Ned - ALL RIGHT SPUDMAN IT IS

You - night

Ned - afternoon ;P

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 **Coming Up Next: A very old-school familiar place in the Spider-Man verse.**


	21. Not a Homebody

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Twenty-One: Not a Homebody

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"Peter? Honey? Did you want something to eat? It's past dinner time."

The door creaks open. I watch the top edge of the door, her dark hair leering in. She glances with confusion at my empty bed.

"Peter?" she repeats, looking around the dark room. She steps inside and looks immediately at the window with suspicion, open just enough to let in a breeze that stirs the curtains. She switches on a lamp and gasps with the audacity that I may have snuck out again.

"That little…" she begins, and then I let out a loud exhale, a sort of moan that replaces snoring when you're just on the brink of paralysis while dozing.

Slowly, with a slight expression of horror, she glances up and sees me hanging upside down from the ceiling.

"SHIT!" she barks, stumbling backwards.

My eyes widen, fully comprehending the upside down room and the sight of my aunt falling against my dresser.

"What?" I yelp, unsticking my hands and falling. I misjudge the distance and crash partially into the desk, knocking over a carefully-stacked mess on top that quickly explodes in a shower of paper, knick-knacks, and school supplies.

I launch myself immediately to my feet and look around blearily, holding out my hands like one does when they think they've felt an earthquake and suddenly look like they're skateboarding in place.

"What happened?" I squeak confusedly.

Poor Aunt May stares back at me, rubbing her elbow. "What the hell!" she manages.

"Did you hurt yourself?" I ask, blinking owlishly and gesturing to her arm.

"No!" Aunt May exclaims. "I'm the one who's supposed to ask the questions!"

I wait, eyebrows raised.

"What were you doing," she jolts one finger up at the sky. "Up there?"

I realize my T-shirt and hair are almost totally plastered with sweat. "Sleeping?"

"Upside down?" she shrieks. "Like an effing BAT?"

"That's not where I started out," I confess, looking down at the mess, and picking up a few fallen notebooks. "I was in bed."

She looks doubtful.

"That's where I was sleeping - I swear."

"And you just magically end up on the ceiling?"

"Well - not magically," I try to explain, straightening a still-chaotic stack of junk on the desk. "...it's the radioactive result of a microcell…"

"I was being SARCASTICALLY METAPHORICAL, PETER!"

"Oh, sorry," I let out an unfortunate snicker, but she is in no way amused. "I think I was sleepwalking," I say, then change my mind. "No - sleep crawling."

"Does this happen often?!"

"No! Never!" I protest.

Then the dream I was having slowly starts to re-form in my sleep-deprived brain.

"Oh," I say, growing crestfallen. "I thought…" I don't bother to pick up the rest of the mess. Instead I ignore it suddenly and walk back to my bed, sitting down dejectedly on the edge of the mattress. "I was having a bad dream." I lace my hands together in my lap and hang my head. "Sorry."

"Wana talk about it?"

"There's not - well, I mean. Sure," I reply awkwardly.

She stands up straighter, surprised at my response. She walks a little too quickly over to the bed and sits down beside me, rubbing my back briefly before folding her hands in her lap.

"So what did you dream about?"

"So I guess it was more about waking up then it was about the dream," I say haltingly. "I think I was dreaming about being - you know. Being.. hurt… so just dreaming about that night."

I have a sudden flash of the realness of the dream. Of the police officer stabbing me. Pocketing the knife. Smiling sickenly when he let me go for no reason. But this time he reached for my throat, held me down with one hand while the other retrieved a gun…

"And when I opened my eyes," I continue with a wince, "...or dreamed I opened my eyes - I didn't know - where - I was."

My voice cracks at just the wrong moment. Aunt May's arm snakes around my shoulders again and lets it stay there.

"It's okay," she says quietly, and waits a moment. "Go on. If you want."

"I… well, I think that was it… It was just dark and hot and I was all sweaty? Then I heard your footsteps in the hall and thought it was - well - the guy - I just remember thinking that someone was coming in here to hurt me - and next thing I know you're turning on the light and yelling and falling over and I'm realizing where I am and how I'm - sitting?"

"Hanging," she corrects. "Definitely hanging upside down. Like a bat. Or a monkey."

"I am so sorry I scared you!"

"I am more sorry," Aunt May wraps her other arm around me and pulls me in for a hug. "For what happened - that made you scared." She kisses the top of my head.

I try to relax a little and let her comfort me - but my new phone starts buzzing.

I glance at the screen in my peripheral vision. It's Happy.

"You can take that if you want," Aunt May pulls back, brushes some hair from my forehead, and sniffs my sleeve. "Why don't you take a shower and come get some dinner when you're done?"

"O-okay. Yeah. I will."

She stands and brushes her hand along my cheek. "You know he's not going to hurt you again - right?" she says. "If it's the last thing I do…"

"I know."

1 missed call.

"Sorry, I said you could get that. I meant it. Call him back. I'll see you in a bit."

"Thanks, Aunt May." Still bleary with sleep, I hit the redial option and hold the new phone up to my ear. She shuts the door behind her.

"Hogan here."

"Hey Happy. Sorry I missed you - what's up?"

"What's up?" he mimicks. "What's up? Status report. Now."

"Uh… nothing? You… just dropped me off. Earlier today."

"That was then, this is now."

"Uh - okay?"

"What's your status?"

"Like, currently? I'm in… bed… I guess?"

"GOOD. STAY THERE."

"I - I can't…"

"You sure as hell can - wait. Why not? You can't?"

"I have to take a shower?"

"I meant - stay put," Happy corrects. "Stay in."

"I'm not going out tonight, if that's what you mean."

He makes a huffing noise like I'm some dratted kid foiling his plans. "I knew that, of course. Just checking in. How're you feeling?"

"I mean - aside from the obvious?"

"What's obvious?"

"Sore? Tired? Weird?"

"You just described turning fifty," Happy sighs.

"Are you turning fifty?" I ask confusedly.

"Me! Of course not! Anyway, I gotta go. Stay in, stay put, sleep tight."

Click.

...

Getting out this morning wasn't easy, either. The only thing that worked was waiting till Aunt May was done playing babysitter and resigned to the fact that the only way I would get caught up on homework was if she let me step out for awhile and get my bag.

My hand was literally on the doorknob to leave when she finally realized she didn't know where my backpack was.

"Wait - are you going to Neds?" she asked suspiciously. "Or is it at school?"

"School," I replied all too quickly, my voice cracking. "It's still at school."

She looked at me over the rims of her glasses, considering whether or not to let me by on an answer that had just as much of a chance of being total bull as it did being truthful.

"Okay," she finally said. "I want you back in less than an hour."

"If I…"

"LESS."

…

No one is looking twice at a kid in jeans and a jacket going up a drainpipe. Only because no one looks down the alley where I am. I'm stupidly lucky.

Climbing a wall… without a mask. Great idea, Parker. Really great.

My backpack is where I left it, but the web has long since dissolved, so it had slipped down and lies in an abandoned lump at the base of the brick.

I snatch it up and looked inside. "Ugh," I say out loud. It smells sort of… mildew-ey. It hadn't rained since Tuesday but enough time spent in the frost of mornings and fog at night - it's not a pleasant result.

I throw away a few items from the pockets in one of the dumpsters in the alleyway after I climb down. A few damp homework pages that are unreadable. A half eaten apple. An extra pair of socks from gym that probably kill Aunt May if I put them in the hamper.

Which means getting the bag in… twenty minutes… leaves me thirty-nine minutes to kill. Should I warm up a little? Try to psych myself out and get back in the game? Climb some more walls sans mask? Run laps? Try a couple of backflips up and down the sidewalk and try NOT to attract extra attention by having superior gymnastic skills when there just happens to be a red-and-blue-spandex hero with the same moves attracting media attention? Probably a bad idea…

I don't know when Mr. Stark is going to finish my suit. Maybe he just said that to keep it and won't give it back - ever. Maybe he wants me to be done. What if this is IT?

If I am done being Spider-Man, what else is…

Hm, I think, a slight smile on my face. When I thought I was going to die, I swore if I got out, I'd try photography.

How does one even begin? I can't dumpster dive for a camera like I would for an old computer part. They don't throw them out like that.

And part of me wants to find a job, too. Something to fall back on.

The whole let's-torture-Spider-Man for useless information really threw me. I thought I could keep doing this… well, forever. But what happens when I meet someone smarter, or stronger? When I'm Mr. Stark's age, do I retire and let someone else use the suit?

I never considered what a life would be like without it. And now that I have been forced to seriously consider what it would mean to lose my life, I think it's time to expand my horizons in the career department.

There's only two places I can think of where an amateur can, arguably, take pictures and either display - or sell them - and gain any kind of feedback from a local audience.

One of them would be working for the school yearbook.

I think about spending extra hours at school anywhere else other than the math and science labs… bleh. No. Well… Maybe. I don't know.

The second one was definitely more along my ideals of a cool career plus doing photography simultaneously.

Literally be a normal teenager for once in your life and use instagram, my brain argues.

Okay… three ways to display photos and get feedback from a local audience. But I already have an online presence - Spider-Man's notoriety on youtube. I can't risk any real-time Peter Parker online shenanigans coinciding with Spider-Man's online presence.

Newspaper photography it is!

I slip my backpack over my shoulders and step out of the alley, shading my eyes against bright sunshine.

I see the streets with new eyes. Well, same eyes. New self. Sense of self? Self awareness? Spider sense?

Every tiny crack in the foundation of these old buildings, the brick, the mortar... it even smells differently. A hot dog vendor. Hat DWAWG to those with the Jersey accent.

I've lived through worse, I think, pressing my hand on the door. Someone who wants in faster than me sort of trips up on the step from the sidewalk behind me, and with breakneck speed, I've twisted around and shoved the door open with one arm, holding it open for the middle-aged woman carrying a large file box.

"Oh, ai'ght," she says, confusedly, in the same Jersey accent I was just thinking about. "Thanks?"

"No problem."

She ambles past me, and I let the door shut, stepping back down the step onto the sidewalk. I start to walk away, shoving my hands in my pockets with a sort of resignation.

This was a dumb idea.

Seriously? Am I walking away right now?

I'm just a kid -

A smart one. And I can climb walls, so…

Compared to last week, this isn't scary. At all.

Don't be a wuss.

I change my mind and march back to the door, pushing it open and stepping into lobby of the Daily Bugle.

"Excuse me," I say, to the woman working at the front reception area. "I'm - uh - looking for the - uh - wherever I need to go - to apply."

"You want to apply here?" the woman repeats dryly. She's middle aged and very fierce looking. Her hair is done up in some sort of... tiny turban, the color of sapphire, and held together with a jewel. She's wearing one of those very large tent dresses, the floral pattern loudly complimenting the headgear. "Here," she repeats. "At the Bugle?"

"Yeah?" I say, confusedly.

"How old are you?" she asks, a little more kindly.

"Old enough," I reply tersely. Maybe I'm not, though. I don't know. Maybe I can intern for free and learn the ropes from a seasoned photographer who does the forensic picture-taking at a crime scene. That could be cool.

"I mean," I amend, "Maybe - I can help out. After school. Learn something. And then... apply later."

"Like an internship?" she asks.

"Yeah, like an internship," I pull my crinkled resume I had typed up out of my backpack. "I have a lot of experience in that regard - see - I interned - for Stark Industries. For Tony Stark. Himself."

"Really?" she seems only mildly interested. She doesn't take my resume, but she leans over the counter a little to see it. "Hm. Well. That does qualify you for somethin', anyway. Why don't you wait a moment." She presses an intercom option on her desktop phone. "Hey boss?"

No answer.

"Hey boss?"

There's a buzz, and a faint yell comes through the speaker. "GIT THE FRICK DANGLE BUCK OUT OF MY FACE AND CALL ME WHEN YOU HAVE A..." The buzz occurs again.

"Sorry, Jolene, you were asking a question?"

Jolene rolls her eyes. "Boss, I have another kid for the internship."

"Internship? What internship? We're not hiring! Goodbye, Jolene!"

"You've been looking for an intern to work with Buckley for fourteen months."

"I had one!"

"You fired him."

"I fired Eric?!"

"And Eileen."

"DAMNIT, JOLENE!"

A pause.

"Okay, send him up."

Jolene gives me a level stare filled with... absolutely no pity at all.

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

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* * *

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* * *

 **Coming Up Next: Rejection is never easy.**


	22. The Daily Bugle

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Twenty-Two: The Daily Bugle

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* * *

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When the elevator doors open on the floor that Jolene directed me to, I am astounded by the sheer chaos, and how I feel as if I just stepped back into 1955. The desks are open, littered with papers, desk after desk after desk... a maze of desks. There are people running around like crazy, carrying manila envelopes, phones ringing, people shouting at each other across the room - there's even someone smoking out on a balcony. I definitely thought smoking was out of style. First Jeff, then this guy.

The only thing that is missing is the typewriters. Instead, I see a lot of laptops. All the energy in the room seems to undulate and seize according to whether the doors - at the far end of the room - open, or close. And they do, often. When open, and shouts are heard within, and when they close, they slam - HARD.

I adjust my backpack straps and take a step into the noise, aiming for the big double doors where - supposedly - I will be speaking to the boss. J. Jonah Jameson himself. He purchased the building with his own money - built himself a tiny little newspaper empire, out of sheer will and hard work. It's hard not to admire that.

The room is crowded enough to be jostled this way and that as I try to step carefully through the aisle between desks. Men and woman run into me head on at times, step aside muttering a hurried apology, and then quickly move past. Others don't apologize at all. Some of them are self aware enough to dodge me.

I'm doing plenty of dodging on my own, focusing with a steel gaze upon the double doors. The more I focus, the more I don't notice the storm that is this office - it's almost too much for my brain to handle. Major sensory overload.

The doors open, and for a brief minute I catch a glimpse of the boss. He, too, has a steely look in his eyes, a no-nonsense expression - and he waves, briefly.

Surprised, I lift my hand to wave in return, when the doors slam abruptly again.

He was waving at someone to shut the doors, not waving at me. Huh.

I am now staring at the chest of a very… tall… and bespeckled assistant. He is so tall it makes me almost uneasy, glasses pinching his nose and his hair combed to a part, exactly like you'd expect a 1950s assistant to look. He is pinching a stack of envelopes and folders between his left elbow and his side.

I wonder if he's wearing suspenders under that brown suit, too.

"HELLO," he says, in a clipped down, a huge smile plastered on his face like a sticker. It looks unnaturally creepy. "You must be the one that Jolene sent up to meet us."

"Uh - yeah?" I reply, looking up at him and feeling very, very short, and a few years shy of all my fifteen years, even. This guy couldn't be more than twenty, himself, but he was still intimidating, for some inexplicable reason.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said, robotically, his smile still unchanging. "I'm Lester." He shakes my hand with a profound, clingy grip.

"H-h-hey," I say. "Nice to meet you too. Yeah. It's - uh - cool - here. Um. Am I supposed to go in, or…?"

"Ah, no, no, not at this time," Lester clasps his hands together in an oddly prayerful sort of pose. "We wouldn't want to make the boss mad, now, would we?"

"We won't?" I ask hesitantly, thoroughly confused. I feel like Lester smelled crazy. Just twenty cats shy of a basket case.

"No, no, not today," Lester keeps on smiling.

"Are you - uh - his assistant?"

"Assistant - TO the assistant, Dan Buckley, who is the assistant, to the one and only, J. Jonah Jameson," he corrects jovially. "But one day, my friend. One day. I will be the lead reporter - writing all the good ones, you know, on the big stuff."

I gulp. "Big stuff?"

"You know," he whispers conspiratorially, "Like the - Avengers? Spider-Man? The Devil of Hell's Kitchen? The bulletproof guy?"

I stare. Something about the way he said the Devil of Hell's kitchen… reminds me of something I thought Officer Cooper had muttered under his breath.

"...what?" I ask, hoarsely.

"Oh, pfft, I must bore you with my career aspirations," Lester waved his hand. "I understand you have career aspirations of your own with our hallmark of the printing world. Where does your dream lie, hm? Crime writing? Household hints? Politics?"

"Uh, um, uh," I stutter. "Photography…?"

"PHOTOGRAPHY," Lester repeats, very loudly. Almost louder than I would like - but - it's a noisy room, and not a single person near us is giving a shit to our very odd conversation. "What a FINE endeavor, adding a strain of the visual arts to the glory that is journalism. Very astute for someone so young." He beams at me.

"Um," I reply. "Thanks. I think. Yeah."

"WELL!" he barks. "I have kept you FAR too long! You must think I am just a chatterbox! Let's get you started, eh? This is what the boss - gave to me…" he struggles with the stack of papers he had tucked under his elbow, bringing a manila folder out and handing it across to me. "He is entrusting you with this very special task."

"What is it?" I ask, beginning to open it.

His hand slams down on top of the folder, the speed of it so sudden, my instinct wants to flip backwards onto the desk behind me. But I don't.

"Don't open it!" he snaps.

"Why not?" I ask, hoarsely.

"Well - it's - I don't know," Lester shrugs, the first human-like response I've seen from him this entire time. A tiny little crack in the strangely artificial interaction. "It's the boss. I don't question the boss. He says - give the new guy this. Don't read it. Deliver it. It's very important."

"Who do I deliver it to?" I ask. "Does this mean I have… a chance? Like at a job?"

Lester smiles. "Well, I see no reason why not? I mean - why else give you something to deliver? Maybe if you do this part well, he grants you an interview, you get an interview, you get an internship - get the internship - well," he threw a hand in the air. "The opportunities just appear, like magic. Anyhow." He tucks the envelopes back under his arm. "Boss says it needs to go to the basement. Last door on the left. Gerry Arbahje. He says you'll see the first initial and the last name on the door. Gerry with a G."

"Who's he?" I ask, getting sort of excited, holding the folder with both hands now. If Lester is right, maybe it's as easy as doing a good job with this, and I'm in.

I could help Aunt May pay the bills eventually… earn money for college… do something real with my life.

"No idea," Lester tilts his head like a confused android on a science fiction show. "I've never met him. I've never actually been down there. He must be new, too." He blinks away the question rolling around in his brain and seems to forget it instantly, smiling down at me again. "Good luck to you! Mr. uh, uh… dear me I forgot to ask for your name. How rude of me!"

"It's Peter. Peter Parker."

"Well it was my absolute pleasure to meet you, Peter Parker," he goes to shake my hand again, which I comply with. When he grips my hand, he gives me one sharp tug, and leans in uncomfortably close to my ear. "I would sincerely love it if you worked here. You are probably the nicest person I have ever met." He lets go of my hand as if it turned into a fish and steps back. "Best of luck to you! Hopefully this is not the last time we see you!"

Then he turned on heel like a precise marching band member, and stomped beautifully in tune to the crazy drum probably banging in his head.

"Bye, Lester," I say with uncertainty. He holds up a single hand in response, like someone who only knew what 'waving' was because they researched it on google.

But - I smile, nevertheless. Even the crazy ones need friends.

"Okay," I say to myself, looking down at the folder in my hands. "All right. Uh… let's go find Gerry."

An odd sense of cheerfulness flutters in my chest as I walk back through the overwhelming barrage of noise in the main office. So, maybe this was the equivalent of asking me to go make the boss a cup of coffee, but I'm surprisingly OK with it. Maybe I get a job. Maybe I get mentored by someone who isn't… Tony Stark, although I can't imagine anyone but him. Maybe someone a little… calmer? Less… Iron-Man?

And then he realizes I have some sort of raw and underdeveloped talent - not for climbing walls - or saving lives - but for taking good pictures. And then I'm the youngest to win that Pulitzer for photo of the year - wait. Can you win a Pulitzer for photography?

I've never really imagined for myself a future that didn't involve science. Or Avenging. I always thought if I couldn't make the cut as a real Avenger… I'd probably go back and be a high school teacher for the science department, and then invent things in my spare time. Inspire others like me with talent for creating things.

But the urge to try photography, maybe even as a last-ditch effort to bargain with some higher power to let me survive Cooper's torture… it came out of nowhere. And even without a knife at my throat, or a psychopath pacing back and forth in front of me - I still wanted to try it, just for the hell of it. It's sort of scary.

But exciting.

I catch myself whistling as I step out of the main office and head back to the elevator, holding the door open for four others to get on, asking them which floor they need, letting everyone get off first before I hit the B button for the basement.

It's a very… very long descent. The elevator is old, and sort of jolty. Sometimes the light flickers.

I slap the folder in my hands, growing excitedly impatient. I think the last time I was in an elevator, it was plunging to an explosion of fiery death and I was saving my friends lives and Liz looked at me with those huge brown eyes…

Even MJ would be impressed if I got a job at the Daily Bugle! She was surprisingly unimpressed with my internship with Stark… or Ned announcing that I knew Spider-Man…

She's just not impressed by a lot, I guess.

I spontaneously put one foot on the railing around the middle of the elevator, hoist myself up, and stick one hand to the ceiling panels, and let myself dangle for the rest of the ride.

The elevator finally clunks to a halt, and I unstick myself and land lightly on my feet as the doors slide open.

The basement hall is exactly how any basement hall would look. The walls are slightly yellow, paint peeling, a light flickers down at one end. A few doors on the right, a few on the left, all shut securely with signs like Janitor's Closet, Maintenance, Breaker Room…

"All right, Gerry," I say out loud, stepping into the hall and looking around, my cheer faltering by a milligram. "Where are they hiding you down here?"

My senses tingle ever-so-slightly… a distant suspicion just behind my ears, on the back of my neck… nothing dangerous, but a slight unease, like just before Aunt May discovers you actually didn't wash the dishes at exactly 6:30 pm like you said you would, and you realize it's 6:35…

Not speaking from experience or anything.

"Hello?" I say out loud, mentally marking this off the checklist as the one thing Ned would be telling me not to do in this scenario. Any minute now one of the office doors will open and some guy in a clipboard will startle me into webbing his face and giving myself away and then -

But, none of these are offices. Not a single one. So why the hell does Gerry get stuck down here?

I pause by the last door on the left end of the hallway and look up at the nameplate.

* * *

G .ARBAGE

* * *

Huh.

There's a hole where a screw should have been, badly placed in the middle of the word garbage. Which could easily be an interesting spelling of… Mr. Arbahje. Which I realized I've never seen in print, I only imagined some ludicrous spelling because it's a ludicrous sounding name.

I place my hand tentatively on the handle, push the door in, and look inside.

It's a closet, and there's two large bins inside. One for garbage, one for recycling.

"Ha… ha… okay. Very funny." I look around, but there's no one else down here. Just me. I look down at the folder in my hands and open it, and find nothing but a bright yellow post-it note.

* * *

GET LOST

...try again when you're grown up

J. J. J.

* * *

Crestfallen, I reread the note, shut the folder with a huff, and push the door open the rest of the way, tossing the folder into the garbage bin.

Fine. Thanks for wasting my time.

I turn to leave and feel a tug.

Friendly, neighborhood…

Okay, okay, jeeze, conscience. Fine.

Thanks for STILL wasting my time.

I go back in, grabbing the folder and removing the post-it note. I shove it in my pocket, and put the folder in the recycling bin properly, despite it being too full already. Then I carefully shut the door behind me so that nothing looks disturbed, and walk dejectedly back to the elevator.

As the elevator ascends back to the lobby level, I pull the crinkled post-it note out of my pocket, looking at it with furrowed eyes as if I would soon reveal a punch line written in invisible ink.

Nope, nothing. It's definitely a rejection.

The doors slide open and I step past Jolene at her desk. I'm aiming for the door, and surprised to hear her call after me.

"Hey - Skinny. Don't take it too hard - whatever it was," Jolene says. She's got a phone crammed between her ear and shoulder, and there's stock orchestral music playing while she waits on hold. Her hands are otherwise occupied… giving herself a manicure.

"Oh… uh, it's fine," I shrug it off. "Everything's fine."

"Mhmm," she gives me an arched eyebrow. "Well - like I said. I warned you."

"Uh huh," I say, looking down at the note. But then again…

I look up at her and smile. "It's not so bad. I, uh, got a referral."

"You got a what now?" Jolene repeats.

"Well - I mean - Mr. Jameson says - right here - I should try again," I hide the note behind my back. "Come back when I'm a little older. Signed it and everything."

She can't tell if I'm serious or not. "He actually suggested you re-apply?"

"Sure did."

When I do, I'm stapling this note to a fully fledged resume, and a recommendation letter from Stark industries. I went in unprepared this time. It won't be like that next time.

"Well," Jolene examines her freshly painted nails and winks at me over the top of them. I can tell she's surprisingly pleased. "He must like you then."

I grin at her. "I guess that means you'll be seeing me around."

"Sure thing, Skinny. Good luck."

"Thanks," I smile at her and turn precisely on heel, imagining something along the lines of the beat that Lester probably hears every time he walks anywhere at all.

That night, the post-it note, signed with J. Jonah Jameson's initials itself, goes on the corkboard in my room. Right alongside a science award certificate from grade school, a worn photo of my parents from the mid-eighties.

A reminder to go back and try again. Someday.

I feel a sense of relief again as I flop back onto my bed to do some homework. Thanks to everyone who helped me… I didn't die in that basement. I've got my whole life ahead of me to try these things. A whole long future and plenty of time to get there.

Nothing could spoil that.

You could kill Casey Cooper, a voice in my head nastily suggests.

I roll my shoulders and open a text book. I'm not playing this game.

Maybe just find out what he's up to, my less-well-behaved inner voice suggests. Maybe just check up on him. And if he were to attack you again… well...it'd be self defense, wouldn't it?

Chapter eighteen - Identifying the formulas to calculate…

Would you rather wait till he has a turn with Aunt May?

I slam the book shut. I think of the way poor Lester was… how oblivious he seemed. That wouldn't be me, skulking around trying to be cheerful when it could all go away at a moment's notice.

My phone buzzes. I look down and see a text with no name.

* * *

Unknown - You gonna be in school Monday?

You - I'm sorry. New phone. Who is this?

Unknown - New phone? Really?

You - Yeah

Unknown - Thought you had the flu

* * *

I feel myself getting a little nervous. My overactive imagination sees Casey Cooper at the other end, trying to determine my whereabouts.

* * *

You - I did. Phone broke, too

Unknown - sounds like a rough week

You - you have no idea.

You - ...

You - so I'll be in school Monday

You - …

Unknown - cool

You - so who is this?

Unknown - your worst nightmare

* * *

I feel my stomach drop slightly, but -

BUT -

I find myself smiling.

* * *

You - Is this Michelle?

Unknown - I'm slightly perplexed and maybe a little hurt that I said I was a nightmare and you instantly knew it was me

* * *

I grin. So… not my worst nightmare. Not at all. I quickly add her to my contacts so it doesn't look as creepy, and then type back.

* * *

You - only partially true.

You - you're quoting Mulan, right?

MJ - yes

MJ - can't believe you got that

MJ - points to Peter

You - well Mulan is a badass

MJ - Yup

MJ - goodnight

You - ...

You - wait that's it?

You - …

You - OK goodnight haha

* * *

So today I got majorly rejected from a job opportunity and made fun of by the boss, thought about killing someone, tried to do homework and failed, and spent time recovering from being kidnapped and tortured.

And yet when I toss my new phone aside on the nightstand and lay back on my pillow, I can't wipe a stupid smile off my face.

"Knock knock, honey," Aunt May leans her head in slightly and gives me a look. "How's the homework going?"

"It's not. I can't concentrate."

"Well… you've got a little time before Monday. Not that I advocate for procrastination - but maybe you just need another solid night of sleep."

"Maybe."

She starts to pull away, rethinks this, and sticks her head back in. "What are you grinning about?"

"Am I grinning?" I ask, lifting my head.

"Like a Cheshire cat."

"Oh," I say, and then my phone buzzes again.

I glance down. Another text from Michelle.

* * *

MJ - I don't do sign offs very well

MJ - …

MJ - …

* * *

She sends me a gif of Chewbacca in the snow on Hoth screaming at the Empire's probe droid. I bust up laughing like a hyena and pick up my phone, completely and utterly forgetting that Aunt May and I were in the middle of a conversation. MJ knows Ned and I like Star Wars a lot. It's almost touching she would randomly send a gif from it. And from the old ones, no less.

But then I freeze, remembering Aunt May's presence, and slowly put my phone back on the nightstand and look up.

She's smiling at me though, not peeved that I was being the stereotypical teenager who just can't tune in to a conversation without their phone.

"I'm so sorry," I erupt. "What were you asking?"

She shakes her head. "Never mind," she starts to pull the door in behind her, but on second thought, leaves it open. "If that's a girl you're talking to," she barks over her shoulder, "I demand to know every - single - detail - tomorrow."

"Oh it's not, it's not," I protest. "I mean it is - a girl! But it's not like that!" I call after her. "It's really not!"

"Sure it's not. That's what they all say."

* * *

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* * *

 **Coming Up Next: It was easy to pretend things could go back to normal, getting extra sleep and doing homework and getting rejected by a newspaper mogul - but it's time to get back to reality. School.**


	23. Passing Pencils

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Twenty-Three: Passing Pencils 

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First Monday back at school.

Entering such a place of normalcy gives me a weird sense of deja vu. Back from hell - but from their perspective, a bad case of the flu. How am I supposed to behave differently - or the same?

I push open the doors and walk into a thick stream of people. A few of them say hello, and I nod back with my own hellos pitched just a little too high.

I'm trying too hard!

I open the locker and find everything where I left it last Tuesday. How has it been less than a week?

"Dude, you're back!"

I whirl around to greet Ned. "Hi," I squeak. "Yeah - I'm back…"

"It's good to see you!" Ned reaches for my hand and we begin an age old routine, a handshake we developed before we realized secret handshakes were only acceptable by our peers in elementary school.

"You too, man," I reply, already sounding exhausted. And the first bell hasn't even rung yet.

"So - like," Ned narrows his eyes and leans in far too close to my face. "You look pretty okay to me. Are you still worried about looking like you got beat up?"

"Shhh, no," I glance around worriedly, then lower my voice. "DO I look like I got beat up?"

"I mean, you have really dark circles under your eyes. But we're teenagers, we don't sleep anyway." Ned reaches up with a short finger and gently prods one side of my face. "Are you wearing makeup?"

"No, cut it out," I fight off a snicker and knock his hand away. "It's - it just clears up, quickly, that's all. I've been doing this for a while now? Right? You don't ever remember seeing me show up to school with a black eye or a busted lip or anything, do you?"

"Not… that I recall," Ned nods with a smile. "It's a super-cool-fly stealthy skill to have."

"Yeah, well," I collect the book I need and dig for a calculator. "It's probably the only reason I'm here."

"At school?"

"Alive," I clarify.

"Shit, bro," Ned whispers. "You gotta meet me at the field for lunch. Tell me EVERYTHING."

"I - I can't, I have to go to the library and try to make up some of the stuff I missed."

"I'll go with you!" he promises. "I can help."

"It's - it's okay, you don't have to do that."

He pauses. "I mean, if don't want me to..."

"But if YOU want to," I add simultaneously.

"This is confusing," Ned replies. "I'll be there - but - seriously - you have to tell me everything."

I shrug. "There isn't much to tell, man, sorry - I wish there was - but - I was, y'know, like, unconscious. For a lot of it. I don't remember much."

It's an effortless lie. Sparing him details.

"What about all that cool stuff we found on the drive in your suit while we were in Washington D.C.?" Ned continues. Always just a little smarter without meaning to be. "Isn't there anything in there that could tell us what happened? Like the program that watches everything you do and reports it to the Avengers?"

"Oh, that?" I wave a hand exaggeratingly. "Not like that - not at all, ppfftt, no - no - there's no existence of that sort of thing, and we couldn't even find out if we wanted to. It's all on highly protected secure servers even if there was anything."

"Ooooh," Ned says, eyeing the crowded hallway around us suspiciously. "Gotcha. They probably hoard all that data and we'll never really know."

"Yes, yes, exactly!" I exclaim over-eagerly. "That's all long gone. So I… I had a bad time… but luckily it's over now and I don't need to think about it anymore." I slam the locker a little too loudly. One or two heads swivel our direction as they walk by.

I hesitate to put myself in a position where he expects me to tell him every gritty detail. If I can't even explain it to Aunt May, how could I explain it to my best friend?

There's a part of me that hates to expose the weakest parts of myself to someone who already finds me cool enough to be friends with in the first place. Why risk changing anything and exposing Ned to this side of the world of being a masked hero?

Let him stay the same kind of friend who asks me questions like if I spit poison or have Thor's cell number. Not the guy who knows I could get killed by any guy with a big enough gun.

The less people in my life that know I could go out just like my uncle - the better.

The first morning bell rings.

…

I start doodling in my notebook before class starts, trying to wrap my brain around last week.

Tuesday Night: Torture was how long? 5 hours? ASK :D

NURSE SAID: Scene cleared? Knife = KEPT

The smiley stands for Happy. I need to figure out a symbol for Mr. Stark. Would a star be too obvious?

No one would be curious enough to even look at these anyway.

"So what's happening on Tuesday night?" Michelle looms over my shoulder.

I slam my hand down over my handwriting and twitch from the proximity of her voice. What's the point of having spider-senses at all if I constantly lose my head in the clouds and let people sneak up on me?

"Huh?" I ask.

"What's that? Tuesday night. Torture."

"What's - what?" I ask, giving her an innocent expression as she sits in the desk beside me, then turns around and faces me, long legs stretching out into the aisle so that other students have to step over them with annoyed sounds. Her hair is extra frizzy today, her dark eyebrows knotting together in a suspicious gaze.

"What's the 'torture' stand for?" Michelle repeats.

"This?" I look down at the notebook. "Oh this is... nothing. Test notes." I shut the notebook and put it away.

"Aren't you going to need that?" she asks dryly.

"No, no, what?"

She raises her eyebrows again.

"Um... no," I lie. "Why?"

She makes a gesture at the room as if to not-so-subtly point out that I'm in school.

"All right, all right, settle down, people, enough chit-chat," says our teacher. "Please get out notebooks and pencils and pens and whatever crap you use that's NON-electronic to take notes. You'll need what we'll discuss today for the quiz on Friday."

Michelle smiles victoriously, and I retrieve the notebook. I erase "torture" hastily and replace it with "homework". She looks over my shoulder again, rolls her eyes and settles in her seat.

I doodle in the corner of the page, and then realize I drew a knife. I start scratching it out, darkening the paper until the whole corner is dark and smudged with graphite. Then the pencil tip breaks.

I click it several times in a nervous sort of way, far longer than it needs, till the lead sticking out of the mechanical pencil looks like a needle in a syringe.

I snap off the end and click it again, repeating the movement.

Monday night, Aunt May found out my secret. Tuesday morning I went to school and tried to have some sort of normal day. Sometime Tuesday night I was abducted. Tortured for a few hours. Escaped and rescued early Wednesday morning before sunrise. Woke up later that morning. Slept a few hours. Aunt May arrived... they asked me to stay one more night even though I was ready to go. Went home Thursday morning.

"Dude," Michelle whispers, suddenly putting her hand over mine.

What is she -

Is she trying to hold my hand?

Like, is she suddenly going to whisper that she has feelings for me in the middle of History class?

"You need to chill the eff out," she whispers quickly. "What's your deal? Are you tweaking?"

I can feel Ned's eyes boring into mine from the back of the room. We had been separated at the beginning of the year because we whispered too much.

"No I'm not, not... tweaking." I answer.

Michelle whips the pencil out of my hand and trades it for hers. It's a drawing pencil, a good kind. Soft led, 6B. Not mechanical and nothing to click with anxiety. I don't open my hand, so she crams it between my fingers.

"The clicking is going to give me blood clot," she hisses. "Use that."

"Thanks," I say, my voice hitching.

I start making wider, darker stripes with it through the corner, darkening it further. Wish I could do the same thing to my memories.

Changing pencils didn't do anything for a shake that started in both hands; just a slight trembling sensation. The top of my head feels hot and slightly damp.

"I thought you were over the flu?" Michelle whispers again. Not that she needed to. The particularly loud lecture about how historical conflicts were influenced, and not influenced, by private industrial companies (Stark) or separate divisions (Shield) was extra loud. Mr. James had probably been watching Key and Peele again during his lunch break.

"I am," I say.

"You look really... sorta clammy." Michelle adds.

"Yeah, thanks," I snark back. I open my water bottle and chug about half its contents.

The anxiety feeling passes and I breathe. Slowly, in and out, in and out.

I wish Michelle would stop watching me - no.

I wish she'd watch me for different reasons other than wondering what the hell I'm doing.

"Dude," she says after another moment. "You're wiped."

"Stop whispering," I try to joke quietly, "You're going to get us in trouble."

"I think you're already in trouble," she replies, her eyes narrowed.

I don't know what to say to that, so I shrug.

"Oh, no, what? Whaddya mean?" Michelle mimics quietly in a fairly decent impersonation of my voice. "I'm not in trouble, why, you, eh, uh, why do you say that?"

I give her a look.

"That's how you're supposed to respond when you're just being a dork," she says. "But if you're not okay, you do this," she winds her finger at me.

"I sit here and take notes for class?" I ask.

"Keep pretending all you want, Peter Parker," she replies mysteriously. "I've decided to be patient with you."

"Patient for what, exactly?"

She looks down at her desk, uses my pencil to take notes, and doesn't say another word.

…

I make it through the rest of the school day without incident. I even manage to avoid Ned's questions without avoiding Ned, spending a decent amount of time with him, cramming between classes and for afterwards to exchange notes.

It's only because I'm unusually exhausted that I cite "flu recovery" reasons for skipping a decathlon meeting to go straight home after school.

I pop my earbuds out at the door like usual. "Hey Aunt May," I say, shutting the door behind me. "Hi sweetheart," Aunt May replies. Usually she would just shout this from the kitchen, but she comes over to greet me, her hands covered in soap suds. She gives me a hug and kisses my cheek anyway, leaving two wet handprints on my sleeves. "How was school?"

"Long. I'm so behind!"

"I guess you better hop to it, huh?"

"Yeah."

She has a funny look on her face.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"There's a package on your bed for you," she says, and by the look, I know exactly what the package is.

"That didn't take too long," I muse out loud.

"He did not take long enough," she says rather bitterly. Suddenly her eyes widen. "Oh, Jesus, I left the sink running!"

She dashes back into the kitchen.

I go to my bedroom and open the door, looking at the box on my bed. I hesitate to open it.

Instead, I walk over to my desk, put my backpack down, pull out a textbook.

I am still feeling behind, even though I technically only missed three days of school. I have a lot of studying. I open the book and stare absently at a random page.

"Came in a few hours ago," Aunt May says, rubbing a towel over a plate edge. She leans against my door frame, her eyes looking tired.

"At least it's in a box this time and not in a lunch sack," I say, not looking at her.

"And at least your aunt is going to walk in on you playing dress up with it again," she says, looking down at the plate, and shifting her weight. "I suppose this means you'll be heading out tonight when you're done with your homework."

I tap a pencil agitatedly in the seam of the textbook, the words blurring together.

B squared… minus… 2A? Or… hm.

Usually math and science come easily to me. Way too easy.

More so than learning the trigger events for World War I or trying to remember the difference branches of government or how a stock market works. But today, I'd almost be rather looking at my least favorite subjects and avoid formulas. I just can't concentrate on them now.

"Yeah," I say, turning and looking at her finally. "I'll be heading out tonight, when it gets dark. Just do a few rounds. Check on the nearest streets, atms, alleys... People walking home alone - closing up shops - that sort of thing."

I didn't even know that I would until the words just fell out of me.

But it feels right.

And I'm committed, now, so - yeah.

I guess I'm doing this again.

Aunt May gives me a ghost of a smile. "You make it sound so safe."

I smile back. "Yeah, well, it is, if I'm there."

She nods, not able to be fully supportive, but proud of me, nevertheless. "Come find me before you leave," she says heavily. "And - please make sure all the, uh, gadgets on that suit work properly. I mean it."

"I will, I promise."

When she leaves the room and I hear the kitchen sink turn back on, I try to concentrate on homework a while longer. Negative B plus OR minus B squared, minus 4ac divided…

It's a weird sort of mental exercise going back and forth from decathlon studying, which has more advanced mathematics and science questions, to then go back to the regular textbooks for ordinary tenth graders and seeing a confusing difference.

These are easy equations, except for the fact I'm writing them incorrectly all the time. It isn't a lack of understanding of the subject matter; it's the distractions.

I launch myself out of the chair, divebomb the bed, and tear open the box like a crazy person.

I lift out the shiny blue and red fabric from its depths.

Either it's the same suit repaired, or a new one with the same design, I can't tell. According to Mr. Stark's promise, it's been personally upgraded by himself. It's not in any danger to - or, we can hope - electromagnetic pulses shot from the gun of a mad man.

I shudder and drop the suit, bending my head over the box for a moment and taking a deep breath.

I am so ready to get out there and be Spider-Man again. I've missed it - missed him? - missed who I am, with it. And there's a part of me absolutely terrified to be him again.

Casey Cooper knows who I am. He knows my name. What's stopping him from inviting himself over to dinner? Coming to the street below my window and looking up?

Mr. Stark assured me this would be a non issue. I don't know what sort of security measures he was promising - facial recognition on our door? Our mailbox? A security detail on him in Hell's Kitchen following all his moves? Or a simple car-tracker and some manager will get an email if it drives too closely to our apartment?

But what if Officer Cooper doesn't alert anyone by coming to the apartment, what if he's smarter than that? I don't know how long he followed me before he found me. Maybe he set the fire at the apartment himself to trap me - maybe he just drove to a disaster and hoped I'd show up. What's to stop him from following Aunt May around in her car, and then pulling her over with some bull shit story about speeding and then kidnapping her and doing the same things to her that he did to me - only she would die. There's nothing enhanced about her healing abilities, unlike my own.

My hand trembling ever so slightly, I open my phone and google Hell's Kitchen police Casey Cooper. I don't have the benefit of the Avengers compound resources, so there's very little to find. Eventually, I do find an article about a pancake breakfast hosted by the precinct, and there's a photograph of two cops at a fold-out table, dishing up pancakes for a long line of happy people standing nearby. They're holding their spatulas victoriously and smiling for the camera.

One of them is Casey Cooper.

I fling myself from my bed and rush out of my room, sliding across the slick floor and bouncing off the hall wall. I hear a startled yelp from Aunt May before I try to slow down around the corner and casually walk into the kitchen.

"Slow down, speedy," she says, whirling around. "You'll break our apartment."

"Sorry," I say. "I - uh - wanted to discuss something with you."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Something important."

"Okay," she straightens up, throws her towel to the side, and shuts the sink off. "Talk to me."

"Uh, first," I say, clasping my hands behind my back. "I need you to make me promise…"

"What is it?"

"Promise first."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "I… suppose."

"Say it," I argue. She'd find a way to get out of it unless I made her say the exact words.

"Alright, I promise," she holds up her hands in surrender. "What is it?"

"I… I overheard bits and pieces of your conversation with Mr. Stark," I say.

"Which one?" She narrows her eyes.

"When he explained that I… you know, didn't want to use their lawyer, and..."

"Yeah," she wags her finger at me, "Not a fan of that, by the way. We could still press charges - I mean - I could. An adult."

"Just - Aunt May - slow down, for a second, please," I struggle, "Let me - just - get this out while I still have the nerve."

She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. Go on."

"A few things," I say, pulling my hands from behind my back, agitatedly twirling my phone in my hand. "There's more than what - we know. Pressing charges against him is dangerous. One, we don't know who he is working for. It could be someone far more worse, or dangerous, than himself. It's not fair to either of us to put ourselves in his way without knowing the full story."

"What if we never know?"

"Then we move on," I say with resignation. "The other thing is, we try anyway, even if it's in our favor - everyone learns my name - your name. All this would be over as we know it. I'd have to sign the Accords. We wouldn't be safe here anymore - I don't know if they'd let you come with me - but I'd probably have to move to the complex. Then everything would have to come from the government."

"Isn't that precisely what you told me about before that night?" Aunt May asks. "I thought that sort of belief is what made Captain America the bad guy."

"No, I'm not saying I'm going to be a fugitive or anything, I'm just not ready for the commitment yet," I reply. "Maybe I… maybe I go to college instead."

Aunt May lets a faint smile creep over her lips. "Yeah. Maybe you do."

"So maybe the government gets my name - or the cop does. And he blasts it to criminal circles and places you, and me, in danger… and maybe someone worse than him gets it before you and I are whisked off to a secure location."

"But it's blackmail," Aunt May's brow furrows.

"I guess. But it's different. Maybe nothing happens at all."

"That's a huge risk."

"It's riskier than taking the bet." I lean against the counter and take a deep breath. "This is where the promise comes in. I think Mr. Stark is wrong about you. As much as you would go into - uh - crazy mode… I think you're smart enough to not grab the nearest baseball bat and chase after this cop." I squint as I hesitate. "Even if you know what he looks like."

Her eyes narrow. "Peter…"

"You promised."

She softens. "I did."

"And he's off limits," I say firmly. "Even if you ran into him in a dark alley and you had the opportunity to bash his head in with - uh - a pipe - you don't. You turn and you walk away."

"Okay, okay, chief," she raises her hands defensively. "I promised - I keep my promises." She lowers her hands, and her tone is careful. "You find a picture online or something?"

I nod, a little shamefully. The screen had timed out. I click the phone on again and hand it across to her. "But I show this to you with that condition."

She takes the phone with trepidation, her expression neutral - and yet frightening - as she looks over the picture of Officer Casey Cooper. "He looks so… normal." She mutters a few expletives and puts her hand over the screen for a moment, unable to look at him for too long.

"Yeah," I repeat uncomfortably. "Normal."

"I wouldn't have known him from any other cop."

"That's why I am showing this to you." I take a shuddering breath. "If- if you - were to see him - I don't know, if he pulled you over or something - or he drove by the apartment - or he shows up at your work - if he comes near you at all - "

"He won't," Aunt May hands me back my phone. "Stark said…"

"It doesn't matter," I interrupt. "Mr. Stark has been wrong before."

She pauses. "Yes. He has."

"I want you to know what he l-l-looks like so you can run, away…" my words are starting to jumble over each other. If I don't slow down and take deep breaths, I'll either have a panic attack, burst into tears, or both. "I - I don't know - what would happen - if he's in uniform, and if you were to run into him in public - he has the advantage to abuse his power. We already know what he might be capable of…"

"Then why don't you want to press charges?" Aunt May asks gently. "Aside from… I mean, aside from the fact the physical evidence is healing too super-fast, there's always the video footage, and your secret identity… I mean - if this is about me, Peter, uprooting my life and then you sign the accords and go public - maybe it'd be worth it, you know? Maybe he is the one going away, and…"

I shake my head vehemently. "Too much of a risk." I bow my head and take another shaky breath. Deep breath in, long breath out. Deep breath…

Aunt May puts her arms around me and gives me a big hug, gives me a smacking kiss in my hair, and steps back. "We'll get through this," she says with assurance. "This is… a lot more complicated than just a kid who refusing to cooperate with a figure of authority."

I fight back a smile. "You being the figure of authority?"

"I'm always a figure of authority." She looks at me questionably before stepping backwards to the sink, as if trying to ascertain if my state of mind is requiring further comfort and full attention, or if I am hovering somewhere between semi-okay and normal. "What you want matters to me," she says carefully. "So if you aren't ready to sign and go public - and would rather hope that Stark's precautions are good enough and this bastard never does something like this again - then - we'll do it your way. For now."

"Thank you." I begin to leave the kitchen, and then pause, looking back. "What precautions, exactly?"

She shrugs. "I don't really know, he didn't elaborate much more than his team would have eyes on him at all times and you had nothing to worry about until you agreed to press charges."

Hm. Typical.

"I guess we'll never know, then, will we?"

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 **Coming Up Next: Peter is determined to be Spider-Man again for... at least an hour.**


	24. Back in the Saddle Again

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Twenty-Four: Back In the Saddle Again

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First night back. First night in the newly repaired suit.

The first half of the night wasted sitting on the roof of my apartment building, swinging my legs back and forth and waiting for crime to happen in the alley way below me.

Nothing happens in the alley way, but a siren begins to wail in the not too distant distance.

I had told Aunt May I was going out tonight.

"No," she had said, "It's too soon. You just got back. You just - just had your first day back at school today, you're probably so behind on your homework - just…" she was pleading. "Give me one more day, please."

"I can't," I whispered desperately. "I can't. It's like - what's the phrase about the saddle? And the horse?"

"Uh… if you fall of a horse you get back in the saddle again?" Aunt May asked. "I think."

"This is my saddle - okay? If I don't go out tonight…" I shrug. "Maybe I never do. But that's not an option for me. Ever. I need to do this tonight."

Needing to is a lot easier than actually doing.

Which is why, less than two hours later, I find myself still sitting in the same place waiting for someone to get mugged nearby so that I could swoop down, fight a bad guy, and then dash breathlessly back to my room and believe it a job well done.

Only that's not me - that's not me at all.

I shove aside my lingering anxiousness and stand up on the edge of the wall, holding out my hand, letting web fly from my wrist. When it catches two buildings down the block, significantly higher than my apartment, I leap high in the air and swing in the direction of the sirens.

I connect with a building half a block down, palms slamming against the brick and mortar of the older complex and crawling down a floor or two, putting me at the second story. I can see the red and blue lights swinging in erie circles against the sides of a taller building further out, closer to shore. The distance makes them look like the tiniest of fairy lights reflecting from the side of a silver-windowed building made up of mostly banks and insurance companies. From the highest windows of that building, one could see over Roosevelt island into downtown Manhattan. I'm not going into Manhattan tonight - not for my first night back. I am going to keep this small, and local.

"Small, and local, small, and local," I whisper to myself as I wind around the side of the building, looking for a taller place to launch from again.

"Why are you repeating this phrase to yourself?" Karen questions.

I didn't realize I was saying it outloud. "No reason," I reply, leaping over the alleyway, feeling a rush of gravity before grabbing a sill and hoisting myself up and over, window past window until I am looping my leg over the top of the building. I pick up speed and run for the edge, leaping from this rooftop to the next. One after the other till the wailing lights grow closer and closer.

"Karen," I say, "I know I try not to take advantage of your superior artificial intelligence capabilities…"

"What do you need?"

"I don't suppose you have any, uh, hacking capabilities for the nearest police scanner…"

"I do not break in to federal electronic devices," Karen replies pleasantly.

"Nah - of course not - it's fine. Forget I asked. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"There is a…"

"No, no, it's fine. I shouldn't have asked. I enjoyed hacking the server at the Avengers facility too much. Got a taste for it - now maybe I'm totally wanting to hack something again? I don't know, that's sort of a Black Widow thing. I don't want to steal her thunder when I join the Avengers for real, you know? But it was sort of… fun… while it lasted."

"I enjoyed that too," Karen says in a gentle, placating sort of way. "But I don't need to hack anything to find out what the local law enforcement is up to."

I pause on the corner of a wall like an oddly colorful gargoyle. "You don't?"

"I have access to several databases. One of the things I can check is the Facebook."

"The Facebook," I repeat, giggling. Karen just aged herself by about eighty years.

"The Facebook social media website," Karen says smoothly. "There is a local NYPD page posting updates on a hostage situation at a convenience store. The assailants have been identified as a local gang called the Blackbirds. Number unknown, approximately eight or so."

"Why would a whole gang go all crazy on a little go mart?" I muse out loud.

Oh well... that's for detectives to figure out. Not me. If the go-mart was a front for a bigger project, maybe I would find out about it by accident, like I did with Toomes.

I flip backwards out of the crux of three medium-height buildings, dropping into the alley between them, and circumnavigating a twisted, maze like path between the backs of the buildings.

It turns into a small, gravel road hidden and nestled between the backs of the buildings, and the run-down, chain-link fenced back yards of several dilapidated houses.

I have a few blocks of bad neighborhoods to maneuver through before the buildings are tall enough again to web to. This is where the mild, spider-man version of parkour comes in - the sort of thing that would make Peter Parker and Ned geek out about while watching Youtube videos and lamenting that we'll never be that cool.

I sort of miss that - now Ned geeks out at me. The only thing we can still geek out about together is movies and science. Otherwise, if I let my own fan-boy freak outs loose in front of Ned, he realizes I'm just as much in the dark as he is. I tried to pull of the whole Stark prototype phone like it was just a rudimentary perk, whereas he was quick to point out that if none of the other Avengers had one, it meant I truly was special. That's the thing about Ned. He's always going to to think I'm special.

Even if I'm not, and I'm totally, royally, and mentally screwed up.

I jog quickly through the gravel alley until I get to a line of brownstones. Much better. I send a volley of web out to the rooflines, beginning the Tarzan-like swinging of swooping from side, to corner, to roof, back to the side, circling around and spying a construction crane way, way high up, by several stories. A much better vantage point.

I climb up about halfway, the shock of the wind whistling louder and the cold front sending gusts of pressure against me the higher I get. Finally, I can see down to the street where twenty or so squad cars are in stand-off mode, lights whirring and men at arms with their weapons trained at the door.

The front doors are opening, and there's a line of people exiting, hands in the air and faces tear-streaked, some of them bloody… those are definitely the hostages, not the Blackbirds.

I see a service door open in the side of the go-mart, and a dark mess of limbs come piling out like a cartoon of criminal goons - only they aren't goons, they're just in a major hurry to get to the darkened car parked next to the store. A car that two cops are currently ducked behind, waiting for orders and watching the supposedly locked and abandoned maintenance door.

The Blackbirds draw weapons and begin firing at random, the sounds of the gunshots clapping my ears like an old fashioned boxing.

"Shit!" I exclaim, a vibration in the air - like a shrill zing - indicates a bullet flew in my direction, but misses by a good eight feet and disappears at an unknown speed into the sky.

I drop from the crane by a good seventy feet, stopping myself with one arm and a heavy "oof!" before sending a string of web forward.

It latches itself to the back bumper of the car, keeping it from going anywhere. They had started the engine already, the tires screaming in protest and smoke winding up from the peeling rubber against asphalt. The two cops ducked behind it had scrambled, at first, further back, trying to avoid a stray bullet, but could now see my webbing. Dumbfounded, they follow it with their eyes and see me perched high above them.

"What the?" exclaims one.

"This is for yooou," I shout down, winding the end of the web around the crane. The car is definitely not going anywhere, leaving it stranded for the cops to come to their senses and approach the driver's side windows with guns drawn and shouting commands to exit. My webbing keeps the vehicle tethered like a giant dog on a leash.

An unknown number of the gang had gotten themselves into the vehicle, the rest fled down the alleyway on foot while their comrades took the fire.

"Karen - any heat signatures still present in that alley?"

"There are - but just out of my range from here. I cannot tell how many, they are huddled closely together - probably looking for a way to break into the nearest building so they can double back instead of fleeing on foot."

"Nice. Okay. Any chance you can guess at how many?"

"If I had to guess, maybe six."

"Are you a gambling AI, Karen?"

"I have nothing to place a bet with."

"I'd be willing to wager something on eight gang-members hiding in that alleyway as per The Facebook post."

"I have nothing to place a bet with," Karen repeats confusedly.

"You don't have to bet anything."

"Oh, in that case," Karen replies, "I believe the correct phrase for agreeing to a gamble is, 'You're On'."

"Good enough for me!"

I feel adrenaline pumping through my veins as I tightrope down my own web for a half minute, dropping past it and grabbing it with my fists, giving myself a gymnast's bar to swing from and launch myself past the police barrier and to the building next door to the go-mart's parking lot. Some of the police spot me and yell and me to stop, but I ignore them as I crawl around the building's brick side and aim for the alleyway.

"Showtime," I say out loud, grinning with sheer enjoyment of the night air - the sounds of the cops - the sizzling sensation of spider-senses telling me the best places to jump, web, and leap from, till I can hear the sounds of the thugs myself.

I can't believe I ever hesitated.

One, two, three -

Four, five, six -

Huh, six.

I flex my shoulders and crack my neck from side to side, hopping a little in place. A few of the men look at me, and then at each other, confusedly.

"In case you didn't notice, spandex," says the first in a thick Brooklyn accent, the glint of a handgun visible just over his belt. He places his hand casually on the grip. "There's six of us, and one-a you."

I hold out my hands in a 'oops, I did break the thing' sort of way, calculating just how close I am to the one who spoke, a giant brute of a guy with a typical baggy-jean, XXL army jacket appearance.

"Uhhh," I stutter. "You know," I reply, "Usually I'd have something to say - but - I'm a little rusty." From each wrist, webbing shoots out in one - two - three - rapid fire successions, followed by the second set - one, two, three - the webs smack in small, snowflake-like patterns on eyes, mouths -

One of the guns goes off - I don't know whose, but I'm already springing up and over their heads, twisting midway and landing behind them, letting loose the same web combination.

"One for you, one for you, another for you, two for you," I narrate out loud when webbing collides with each most immediate threat - the hand on the gun, a cellphone in another's hand, the guy already with one small firearm in each hand. Some of them are trying to move out of the way, and the formation breaks.

It's a little harder to get the bad guys when they all move in a panic in different directions.

"Wait, hold up," a strand of web shoots out, catches one guy around the ankle like a lasso, and knocks him heavily onto his stomach. I yank my arms back, simultaneously leaping in the air and planting my feet firmly against the back of the closest man who just didn't have time to react in any way at all.

The one I am reeling in like a fish flies backwards, arms spinning crazily, colliding with the man I just kicked into him. They both crash together, knocking into another, whose hands are fused together with web. As one last preventative move, I give them matching web-anklets, cinching them up tightly together, and for good measure, stick them to the guy who was standing there dumbly with webbing over his eyes. He had made the strange, if slightly logical decision, to stand completely still and not try and do anything at all. Being blinded by the webbing, he lets out a surprised gasp with the other two suddenly barrel into him, and the three of them go down like pins.

I sidestep the human bowling game and run down the alley a few steps to catch up with the others, who thought it was a great idea to run for the dead end.

All three of these desperate individuals are trying to make their escape by crawling up the chain link fence separated the end of this alley from another, running in a T shape on the backs of these decrepit, run-down commercial buildings. My lenses constrict and widen as I roll my eyes. I place my hands on the building beside me and scramble up hand over hand, till I am leaning precariously from the corner to look down at the three men struggling up the fence. Their shoes are too big to make good contact, so they're relying on arm strength alone.

"Aw, man, you guys climb too?" I say from above. "It's hard to find people with similar interests…"

They look up in horror, and I let myself fall down on top of them, knocking two of them back into the ground. One of them remains clinging wildly to the fence, but I grab the back of his jacket and pull him down, shoving him to the asphalt. Another is attempting to pull a knife from inside his jacket, but the webbing from before is making him stick to himself.

I kick his arm to keep him from reaching further, and let out another volley of web, strands lengthening between the wall, themselves, their ankles, their faces - panic sets in when they see the gauzy substance thickening, becoming less of just a weird string pulling their limbs closer and more of a confined blanket, pinning their arms to their sides -

I send off one last strand, up to the edge of the building, I give it one last mighty heave and the whole group of them are hoisted far into the air, cocooned together and shouting in muffled tones, like those old fashioned net-traps in a Robin Hood movie.

"Hang in there," I say encouragingly, patting the mound a little too hard as I trot by. The bundle of them begin to swing from side to side, their muffled shouts from inside growing more sickly and agitated.

I head back to the mouth of the alleyway to find the first three, struggling to detach themselves from each other, half-raised on elbows and shaking their heads back and forth, trying to communicate with large eyes.

I make a tsk sound and kneel down to be eye-level with the one who told me I was outnumbered. His eyes are wide with fear as I stare back at him, faceless except for the white of my lenses widening and shrinking. I am literally just opening and shutting my eyes exaggeratingly, and it makes it look like my suit is acting of its own accord, an android of some kind considering whether or not to let him live. I let him sweat for a moment.

"I remember what I was gonna say earlier," I say, holding up a finger. "This is good - I swear - you'll like it, I think… oh wait, here you go," I grasp the web covering his mouth and give it a sharp tug, ripping it off his mouth. It takes a decent portion of his goatee with it, and his eyes start to water heavily.

"Uh, say the thing you said before, we'll try it again," I say goofily.

"Wh-wh-wh-at thing?" he asks blearily.

"It went something like - there's six of us, one of you," I remind him. "Go on, say it again, I got something this time." I gesture to the alley like it's his stage and this is a great opportunity.

"Uh - uh," he spurts, terrified. "There's, uh, six of us, and one-a you…"

"NEVER TELL ME THE ODDS," I reply loudly. I've wanted to use a Han Solo quote for something like this since the beginning. Wait till I tell Ned!

He shakes his head slightly, still terrified, eyes squinting like he's afraid I'm going to hit him in the face. He doesn't get the reference.

He doesn't get the reference at all.

I sigh. "I can't believe I wasted that on you. If you can't appreciate that - well…" I push the flap of webbing back over his mouth. "Nighty night." I send them up a netting-like trap like I did for the other three, pushing them once more so that they're swinging lazily back and forth.

I hear sirens in the distance. Even though I know they're coming for these six men - who were just recently in the building beside us robbing the convenience store - I feel a pool of dread in my gut. What if Cooper…

No.

It's not even the right jurisdiction, there's no way he'd be in this borough.

(it was the wrong jurisdiction before, too…)

I step out of the alleyway and send up a spiral of webbing that leads from the front door of the market, swoops around the corner, and connects to my home-made bags of protesting, angry criminals.

"See you guys never!" I shout loudly, scaling the wall to the building on the other side of the alley. I plant both hands firmly on the very edge of the gutter, launching my legs through them, landing at a run on the flat inside of the roof. I make it across and leap over a much smaller, skinnier alleyway, slamming against a sloped roof, and sliding for a brief millisecond before catching my feet on the gutter. Instead of heading up and over the peak, I creep along the side, careful not to jostle any terracotta tiles loose.

From there I can stick to the building behind it - the side of a skyscraper, white panels between thick, darkened windows. Only a few of the offices inside are lit, I avoid crawling past those windows, ascending higher and higher until I can safely spot a safer route from here to home, swinging from taller buildings gives me a sense of security that I never had to consider before - that no cop is following me stealthily in his car, waiting for the opportune moment for me to get too close to the ground so he can shoot me down.

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 **Hey readers! If you could drop me a review, that would be amazing! Are you enjoying the chronological version as opposed to the previous version? Are you spotting some of the new scenes to bridge the gaps? What are your Halloween costumes?**

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 **Coming Up Next: Peter gets to offer a different kind of help. No swooping, saving, or fighting... just a listening ear.**


	25. Girl, Interrupted

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Twenty-Five: Girl, Interrupted

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I shoot a splayed pattern of webbing against the side of a huge apartment high-rise, casually dropping into a fire escape and planting my hands against the wall. Hand over hand, I lift myself up the side, crawling vertically up, and up, thirty-three floors, forty, and then finally fifty-five, the final floor. I plant both hands on the edge of the rooftop and launch my legs over, surprised at the drop. It was a little deeper than I expected.

"Whoa!" I exclaimed loudly, falling eight feet down, remembering to tuck and roll last minute and launching myself to my feet again. "Whoo," I exclaim, shaking out my shoulders, and picking up speed to head for the other side of the roof. "That was unexpe…"

I stop and realize I'm looking at the face of a woman facing me on the rooftop. She's standing on a small ladder, the very end of the fire escape screwed to the wall and dropping over the side and heading for the floor below us. She's holding onto the handles, her neck craned around as she beholds my appearance with shock.

"Spider-Man?" she stutters.

I skid to a halt. "Uh - h-hi."

I clear my throat and nod my head as if I expected her here. "Citizen."

She quickly drops off the ladder and brushes her hands off, tucking them awkwardly into her jean pockets. "What - what are you doing? Here?"

"Parkour," I offer meekly.

"Aha," she gives me a polite sort of laugh. "You don't remember me, do you?"

I tilt my head. Blond hair tucked behind her ears in a ponytail. A fairly nondescript face, average height, average size. It could be anyone… it could be…

"You were at the fire," I remember. "The same night I…" I stop myself. It was hard to remember something as normal as a rescue at an apartment high-rise when it was the same night I was kidnapped and savagely tortured. But I knew her now. She's the mom of the little girl I rescued. She had told me she was staying with her parents in Morris Park.

"I am so sorry," I say. "I remember you. But I don't remember your name…"

"It's Kim, it's okay," she smiles, but I notice she's trembling. Badly.

"It's Kimberly, Kimberly Matthews, age thirty-three," says Karen in my in-ear. "I am sensing high levels of distress. You should move closer to her. I will try to determine vitals or if there is a medical emergency."

"Are you okay?" I ask, taking a step closer to her.

She begins to smile, winding up a lie. I know she's trying to come up with a lie because I've made the same expression to Aunt May multiple times. Smile, hesitate on answer, smile again with a sort of "Wha?" sound, and then answer. She knows it now and always calls me out.

"I'm fine," she says shortly.

"What are you doing up here?" I continue, taking another step. "This is a long way from Morris Park."

"This is my boyfriend's place," she answers finally. "I come up here to smoke."

I take another step. "I don't mean to be rude - really, I don't - but - why not just use the fire escape? It'd be a little safer, don't you think?"

"Sure," she shrugs. She doesn't retreat as I advance. "But my daughter and I come over to hang out with him. They're watching Frozen. I, uh, you know, don't want to smoke in front of her. I don't want her to pick up any of my bad habits."

"If I may interject, momentarily," said Karen's voice again. "She does not appear to be carrying any smoking devices."

"Where are your cigarettes?" I ask.

She has no answer for me this time. She looks around, confusedly, patting her pockets. "Huh," she says quietly. "Well," she adds coldly, "I guess I'll have to look for them. Nice seeing you again."

She's being abrupt and weird. In the very short few seconds I had spoken with her after the fire, she had been… talkative. Grateful. Gushy. The type of person who wanted me to know where she lived so if I needed a place to go, I could show up. She was probably just shy of sending Hallmark cards and cookies if she'd known my address.

But now she was cold and distracted, and I felt uneasiness rolling from the entire interaction in waves.

"I cannot determine anything wrong," Karen says confusedly. "But I am still sensing elevated heart rate… likely anxiety. For me to be able to read anything further, she'd have to be wearing this suit."

"Wait," I say, holding out a hand when she turns to walk away - to where, I don't know. It's a long, wide, flat roof, with air exhaust pipes and satellite dishes sticking out of it. There's a single upright door in the corner of the wall, leading to a maintenance stairwell.

She stops and looks at me, almost annoyed, but her eyebrows are knitted together with doubt.

"Why don't you let me walk you downstairs?" I ask. "Even walking in your own apartment building can be dangerous nowadays. At least let me make sure you arrive back safely."

Kim looks back at the ladder, then at the maintenance door, then back to me. She forces on a smile. "Sure… yeah… I'd like that. You're a gentleman. Better not tell my boyfriend, though, that I'm out walking with another man."

I mime locking my lips and throwing away the key. "Your secret is safe with me."

She smiles. "Yours too."

"Mine..?" I repeat, suddenly fearful. "What're you - what do you uh - mean?"

She winks. "That you have a soft spot for me. I just won't tell your other fans. They'll be jealous of me."

I chuckle uncomfortably. "Yeah, my legions of fans. Don't tell them you're my favorite." I step up close beside her, walking in stride with her as we approach the door. As I reach for the handle, I can't help but think her statement - while cute - doesn't make any sense.

I rescued my daughter, not her. And if she is considering this a rescue - what happened to her? What was she doing up here? Was there someone else here too, threatening her and leaving before my arrival?

It feels weird casually walking into the building (even something as private as a maintenance stairwell) side by side with an individual that I've now met twice.

Kim's nervous, and tucking her blond hair behind her ears. She looks pretty underneath the haunted look, the bags under her eyes, the body weighed down with exhaustion and something else that I can't put my finger on. She looks every inch a tired, approaching-middle-age mom, but the hope I saw in her eyes last time is gone. That's the difference.

I hold the door open for her, and then let it fall shut behind us.

"Thanks," she says, with a smile.

"Yeah," I shrug, walking down the stairs with her. Our footsteps echo against the cement walls, trailing musically down the stairwell. Some old fluorescent lights flicker above, bouncing off the shadowed, water-stained walls. It's not a well-maintained area, and puts my senses on alert. I find myself walking slightly ahead of her, checking corners before she reaches them.

"May I ask how old you are?" she questions. "You seem so young."

"Uhhhh," I respond awkwardly.

"Oh, you don't have to answer," she says quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay," I respond, feeling that I don't have to be entirely paranoid around her. "I'm fifteen."

"Well shit," she breathes. "Sweetheart. Aren't you a little young to be putting yourself in danger like this?"

"I gotta do what I do," I try to say with a casual smirk. We round the corner, and go down another level. "Which floor you on?"

"Three more," she answers, and falls silent.

"So…" I remember Karen's advisement of her distress. "It seemed like you were pretty upset about something. Is everything okay?"

Her breath hitches, and it's my turn to apologize. "Now I'm prying," I snicker a little. "Sorry."

"It's nice for you to ask," she replies, hesitantly. "I just needed a space to think… and… well, grieve, I guess."

"What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

She brings up her shoulders to her ears briefly, less of a shrug and more like building a small, bodily shield against the emotions that flood her by my asking. "I lost my custody of my kid today. We had the trial… and…" She bites her lip, unable to continue.

"I'm so sorry," I say sorrowfully. My overwhelming sympathy for her seems muffled by the mask, and I almost wish I was just Peter Parker right now, instead of Spiderman, to better provide some comfort.

"I have to go downstairs and tell her," she went on, "I'll get her on weekends… still… sleepovers with Mommy. It's not the same… she'll be living with him in his new apartment. We couldn't prove his current drug and alcohol abuse, but they were able to prove my use two years ago, citing unstable environment since I don't have my own place..."

"I don't… I don't understand that," I reply weakly.

"She can choose who she loves when she's eighteen," Kim says curtly.

"I'm sure she still loves you," I say with an awkward hitch in my voice. "Court doesn't decide that, right?"

"I don't know," Kim whispers softly. Her voice is full of despair. "Guess I won't know till she's eighteen. I might as well not exist till then."

"How old is she?"

"Just turned six."

"So… that's twelve years from now?" I ask hesitantly. "I know… I know it seems like forever - but - isn't it worth it?"

"She is," Kim says. "But maybe I'm not."

"I know it doesn't seem like that," I say, with an urgency that I don't understand. "But I'm… I'm just a kid… so thinking about this from her perspective. I'd give anything to see my parents again. Anything. If someone told me I only had twelve years left before I could spend time with them… I'd take it. Doesn't matter how long it takes."

She seems warmed by this admission. "You sound like you've been through a lot." We pause, and I realize we're at the door onto her floor. She opens it onto a cramped apartment hallway. "It's admirable that you're so… helpful. And friendly. After whatever crap you've been through. Most people turn that suffering inward."

I gaze at her steadily, unsure of what to say. My lenses adjust slightly, and it makes her laugh. "You don't have to say anything more," she waves a hand. "I've taken too much of your time already."

"No, not at all," I say. "This is my time. Helping… people. Doing things. I guess." Part of me wants to say that I'm no saint and I do plenty of angsty suffering on the inside, and rarely open up in a healthy way. "Listen," I add. "I'm not really the best person to give advice about this. I'm just a kid."

"Spiderkid," she says with a wink, elbowing me slightly. "Has a nice ring to it, huh?"

"Sure," I try to laugh a little with her. "It's just… I want to say… hang in there? No, no, I don't want to say that, that sucks… I'm really bad at this. I just hope everything turns out okay."

"Even if it takes twelve years to get there?"

"Especially if it takes twelve years," I nod fervently. "There shouldn't be… be... an expiration date, ya know? And - I bet if anything - I bet your daughter is going to really look forward to turning eighteen. It'll be the best birthday ever."

She smiles and nods, and the pause between our conversation falls naturally. It's time for her to go inside and tell her daughter what happened today. It's time for me to go home. "Thanks for walking me home, Spiderman," she smiles. "You get - home - safely. Home? Right? You've got to have a home. A place where you stay."

"I do," I nod wholeheartedly again. "And, you're welcome. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

"See you," I wave, awkwardly.

"She seems much calmer," Karen's voice chimes in as I turn away and go back up the maintenance stairs. As soon as the door clicks shut onto Kim's floor, I send a spiral of webbing up the center, open area of the stairwell, till I hear it splat against the roof above the maintenance door. I pull myself up with an oomph, cutting the time to get to the top by half.

I detach myself from the web when I reach the landing, plopping down on the entry and pushing the door back open.

A cold, sharp wind whistles around me, buffeting hard against my body and nearly pushing me back. It reminds me once more just how high this building is.

I go over to the fire-escape ladder that Kim was holding on to when I approached, climbing up it myself and peering over the side. Below, New York is spread out like a black blanket twinkling with stars, or rather the headlights and streetlights of thousands of people. Thirty, maybe forty stories high? Fifty, at the most. It's not the tallest building in Manhattan by a long shot but it's high enough.

The cacophony of the city returns; a siren, a dog barking, traffic in the smaller, cramped streets between high-rises and faster white noise of the freeway. Everything that an underground room is not.

I will always have two shadows… my own, and Casey Cooper's. Unless...

I mean, look at Kim. She doesn't get to have her daughter living with her and she faced it with a ridiculous calm. She is… brave! Like really brave!

Am I always going to glance over my shoulder, fearing the rumble of a police car pulling up behind me?

I'll do it.

I'll go back to Hell's Kitchen. Back to Hellmouth, the Lion's Den, whatever. If anything happens… maybe I would be more prepared to do what is necessary.

If I were to do this - purposefully seek him out - I'd need to, you know, commit. Track him down. Find out where he lives or works or something. Maybe I'll put my mind at ease.

Is this idiocy, or is this facing my fears?

Aunt May likes to remind me that the right choices aren't always the easiest ones. I tell myself that the more I struggle with this, the better. That means I'm taking charge for once.

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 **Reader Replies**

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Sojie204 - If you want some AWESOME Black-Widow-centric content, my other story "Avenge the Departed" is way more what you are looking for! Tons of Black Widow intrigue, emotion, romance, spy work, and a little hand-to-hand combat. There's no Natasha action in this story!

curry-llama - Peter definitely needs a do-over with that quote with someone like you, who truly appreciates it! :D

gidster - I am so glad you are enjoying my story! Hopefully the wait was not too long! I'm trying to upload a chapter every 3-4 days!

parisindy - Thank you SO much :)

Kirby Lane - Thank you so much for your lengthy and kind review! I am so glad you are enjoying this story. I too am enjoying it much better than the old version. The previous one was easier to write, but this one is way easier to read. Thanks for sticking around for both. And no worries, there is plenty more Stark/Peter fluff in the future! (such as... the next chapter! haha)

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 **Coming Up Next: There's interruptions of many kinds. Sometimes it looks like Tony Stark in a really fancy car.**

* * *

 _ **EPIC ANNOUNCEMENT - NEW PETER PARKER STORY!**_

 **I've written another HUGE Avengers story and I would LOVE it if you all hopped over to my profile to check it out! It's called Avenge the Departed. It's got everything on the checklist - more Avengers action, Peter Parker emotion/whump, tragedy and death and fights and suspense... if you liked this story, you'd probably like that one even more. It's a little low on the reviews though, and I'm a bit starved and desperate. So if you have a mind to, feel free to check out my profile and drop me a review if you like it! I've pasted the official summary below.**

* * *

 **AVENGE THE DEPARTED SUMMARY**

Peter Parker works as an undercover informant in the Vulture's illegal weapons manufacturing crime syndicate. Bucky Barnes is torn apart by Hydra's programming; his desire to be a friend overpowering the deadly Winter Soldier. Deadpool has joined Captain America in the post-Ultron, fractured Avengers Initiative. Shield and Hydra are in a secretive, deadly combat for control. No is safe and no one can be trusted. Martin Scorsese's THE DEPARTED retold in the Marvel universe.


	26. AC-DC

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Twenty-Six: AC/DC

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 _Well, I'm here,_ I think angrily. I kick a wayward piece of trash from the sidewalk, hands shoved in pockets and head down. _Come and get me._

I avoid eye contact from anyone on the crowded street corner, but I also can't help put check the driver of every car going by, afraid - and yet almost hoping - that I see I familiar dark blond head peering at me suspiciously through tinted glass.

Come and get me, I think - bravely or foolishly, I don't know. He can't use the same Toomes' weapon to shoot me down in broad daylight. He'd actually have to act like a cop in a crowd.

I sigh and take two steps back, pick up the paper cup I had kicked a second ago, and walk it to the nearest trash receptacle bolted into the cement.

I flinch when an exceptionally fancy white Audi R8 roars up to the curb and brakes all too smoothly, the engine purring like a space-age invention.

And the passenger window rolls down.

"Care for a ride home, Mr. Parker?" Mr. Stark's aviators glint in the late afternoon light. "Sort of a bad neighborhood to be in sans suit, don't you think?

"It's at the dry cleaners," I joke, only hesitating for a moment.

"Funny," he replies shortly.

I lean on the passenger door. "Shouldn't you be upstate?"

"I was, then I wasn't. Business meetings. I still work here sometimes, you know. My fiance bought my building." He pops the handle on the door, forcing me to take a step back and opening it the rest of the way. "Get in."

"You're really taking me home?"

"Either that or I tie you to the top. Your choice."

I slide in and shut the door.

"Seatbelt."

"Really?"

"Car doesn't move till you're wearing a seatbelt."

I sigh and buckle up. The car purrs away from the curb and slides like a zipper back into traffic, Mr. Stark expertly navigating the tight corners and thin lanes with precision.

"So," he says, reaching down and bumping the volume dial with his hand. AC/DC's Shoot to Thrill, Aim to Kill fades into a monotonous background buzz. "What are you doing in Hell's Kitchen?"

I consider my answer carefully. "The absolute truth is… I don't know."

He whips off his aviators for a second, pinching them between his fingers so he can still use that hand on the steering wheel. He glances in the review mirror, and then glances briefly at me. "The truth?" he asks.

"Yeah. It's the truth."

"Y'know it's hard to read you, here - while also concentrating - in this god awful traffic."

"That's why I take the train."

"I thought you didn't have a license yet."

"Uh… I don't." I shrug. "I didn't say it was the only reason I took a train."

Mr. Stark gives his head a little shake, like he's putting a smile away and thinking I'll save that for later. "This whole Peter Snarker thing is fun and everything, but we're going to put a pin in that and rewind to the part where you were walking down a sidewalk in Hell's Kitchen after school with no god-damn excuse."

I bite my lip and look out the window. We pass a sign for getting on the 495. Mr. Stark expertly maneuvers onto the exit.

"Cool," I whisper.

"Huh?"

"Cool. Sorry. This is a - a really, really nice car."

"How old are you again?"

"Fifteen?"

"Uh huh." He knows how old I am, he's trying to make a point. I see it, and I ignore it. "All right, kiddo," he relinquishes, "I'm turning this one up. It's one of my favorites. At the end of the song, you tell me the truth." He glances at me again. "Agreed?"

"Agreed," I say hesitantly.

"Good." he slides his aviators back onto his face and turns up the volume. The AC/DC song had ended and the next one on shuffle was starting… or, whatever the heck these fancy cars use to play songs with no commercials. And somehow it's never the annoying pop tune that gets played three times an hour.

I'm no idiot, I could probably name the technology if I could take it apart and see it… then have fun rebuilding it… from the inside. But I have no idea what rich people call it when it's a finished product and blinking with a blue, virtual touch screen. A bluetooth with an extra fancy Pandora app?

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 _I'M ONNA HIIIIIIGHHHHWAAAAAAY TO HELL_

 _HIIIIIIGHWAAAAY TO HELL_

 _HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHWAY TO HELL_

 _..._

I wonder if Tony Stark picked this song on purpose, or the Audi's nav system sensed we were just in Hell's Kitchen and picked an appropriately named song.

It's sort of creepy.

I watch the buildings fall away to the East River, then glance through the other side and glimpse the United Nations headquarters. It's weird to see something so normal from the outside that people drive by every day, when you know within those walls, someone might have suggested the Sokovia accords and began this entire mess - but without it, I wouldn't be where I am, or know any of the Avengers.

All too soon the song ends.

"So," Mr. Stark says, turning the volume down again. "Why were you in Hell's Kitchen?"

"I was telling the truth before. I don't know."

"All right, I hear you. You're a teenager. Maybe you just do things without thinking about why - or the consequences. Sure."

"Yeah," I gulp. "That's… what it was."

"So explain to me - instead - the reasoning prior to arriving. You obviously would have had to get on - where'd you get on? Union? From school? That's some complicated navigation, plenty of time to think about where you're going."

"I don't know!" I exclaim. "I felt like getting on a train and coming here because I know there's some guy who wants to kill me working out here and maybe there's a part of me that just - wants to know where he is? I don't know - like if I see him there, I know he's not waiting outside my apartment building? That's it, that's all I got, Mr. Stark. I was just not thinking about… it…"

"Sounds like you did plenty of thinking about it."

"Sounds that way, doesn't it…" I sigh. "But I didn't… I wasn't."

"He's not outside your apartment building."

"I know."

"I've got guys posted around, you know. Till things settle down."

"I know."

"We could curb a little of this anxiety by pressing charges."

"No."

"Ah." Mr. Stark makes a disapproving little huff through his lips like he tasted a cigar he didn't like. "I don't want you near this neighborhood right now."

"Yes, sir," I say quietly. I didn't say this with sarcasm. The sir just sort of slipped out.

He raises his eyebrows but doesn't comment. "Good," he responds shortly.

Mr. Stark had absolutely no idea how much he sounded like my uncle Ben right now. Calling him sir was like slipping up and calling him "Uncle". Only he had no idea. There's a time when it's mister this or mister that, and now was just not one of those times. Sir will do.

The car ride is fairly quiet for a few moments. Eventually the silence makes Mr. Stark uncomfortable, and he begins to pepper me with questions about school, which - as best as I can - I answer, and I feel as if I am in the weirdest job interview of my life. Ironically, I feel it is exactly the sort of conversation we'd have if I was just an ordinary Midtown Science student looking to get a Stark Industries internship.

Fighting crime at night in a red and blue suit doesn't even come up once.

…

Stay low, stay local. Stay low, stay local.

I tell myself this because if I don't, I know I'm webbing myself right back to Hell's Kitchen.

Honestly, I need Tony Stark to grow complacent again, so that he isn't looking around for me if he happens to pass through again.

I'm definitely going back to Hell's Kitchen, despite my first attempt botched and interrupted by my mentor.

I know I'm just gambling on an opportunity to confront my abductor and show him just how powerful I truly am, but why play with fire right now?

If I take my time, and be careful, maybe this doesn't end badly for me.

So I do my rounds in the usual areas… keeping it on this side of the Hudson, no venturing any further than the East river. In Queens, I stop a mugging in a park, webbing up some douche by the ankles and lowering him down into the view from the windshield of a cop car who was tucked between two buildings for a speed trap.

In the Bronx, I stop thieves fleeing a heist at some small wedding-themed jewelry store before the police even get there.

I pop out in front of their car with an "Evening, gents!" before slamming my fists into the hood, feeling the metal and grill buckling around me like metal putty, my feet skidding into the asphalt behind me as their car crashes against me, the car's engine turning into an inverted V.

I step back and survey my good work, when the driver pops out, brandishing a gun in my direction.

I web his hand to the inside of the car, which makes the gun go off, and he accidentally shoots his partner in the shoulder. His partner yells and curses at him, but he's quickly shut up my the webbing across his mouth. Then I do the same to the one who shot him.

Now I have two silent jewelry thieves and a car full of black backpacks stuffed with diamond rings and necklaces.

I shut both car doors on the struggling thieves, first making sure their hands are webbed to the dash, and kill the engine, putting the car in neutral. Then I pick up the bumper with one hand like it's a red flyer wagon, dragging it along behind me towards the nearest precinct.

The jewelry store alarm behind me still shrieks shrilly into the night.

Three cop cars come screeching around the corner, slamming to a stop when they see me dragging the thieves car behind me.

Driver and passenger doors pop open all over the place, cops ducking out and pointing their guns at me. "Hands where I can see em!" one shouts. "Put - uh - put the car down!"

I drop the bumper of the car quickly, the tires hitting the ground and the heaviness of the vehicle protesting with a groan.

I wave both hands at the police cheerfully. "Hey! I caught your bad guys for you!"

"What?" says one confusedly, but I'm already sending a stream up web up to the top of the building beside me. It's nearly invisible in the darkness.

I use the web to yank me out of their line of fire, and it happens so quickly none of them spot where I end up.

So unlike having to swoop from roof to roof to evade any pursuing cops, I get to watch from a nearby rooftop.

I satisfactorily stick a lollipop I was saving in my mouth (mask rolled up just to my nose) and watch the cops drag my webbed up cocoons (with struggling man-shapes inside) to their squad cars.

It's a good night, but it's late. I promised Aunt May I wouldn't be that late.

So I head back through the Bronx, from the northernmost end, aiming for the East River to head back into Queens.

Coincidence leads me to Morris Park.

The lights of the cop cars and ambulance make me stay.

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* * *

 **Coming Up Next: The hardest lessons are learned when you lose someone. The hardest part is not knowing the lesson for a long time; all you feel is the loss.**

* * *

 _ **EPIC ANNOUNCEMENT - NEW PETER PARKER STORY!**_

 **I've written another HUGE Avengers story and I would LOVE it if you all hopped over to my profile to check it out! It's called Avenge the Departed. It's got everything on the checklist - more Avengers action, Peter Parker emotion/whump, tragedy and death and fights and suspense... if you liked this story, you'd probably like that one even more. It's a little low on the reviews though, and I'm a bit starved and desperate. So if you have a mind to, feel free to check out my profile and drop me a review if you like it! I've pasted the official summary below.**

* * *

 **AVENGE THE DEPARTED SUMMARY**

Peter Parker works as an undercover informant in the Vulture's illegal weapons manufacturing crime syndicate. Bucky Barnes is torn apart by Hydra's programming; his desire to be a friend overpowering the deadly Winter Soldier. Deadpool has joined Captain America in the post-Ultron, fractured Avengers Initiative. Shield and Hydra are in a secretive, deadly combat for control. No is safe and no one can be trusted. Martin Scorsese's THE DEPARTED retold in the Marvel universe.


	27. The Unimaginable

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Twenty-Seven: The Unimaginable

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 **TRIGGER WARNING - Suicide (discussed, described, not shown)**

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I perch on the highest building I can find at the moment, a local hospital, and adjust the straps on my backpack to catch a glimpse of whatever is going on at the scene below.

Morris Park is an older, familial, majority Italian neighborhood. People would say it's the safest, calmest place in the Bronx. Of course it has crime like anywhere else - but, maybe at a much lower rate.

So the flashing lights confuse me.

And I stay.

If the cops are already on the scene of an accident, there isn't much preventative work I can do. It's not a robbery in progress that I can stop using super strength and zesty one-liners. No one is holding a gun to anyone.

There's no sirens, only the echoes of red and blue splashing against the old houses, cramped two-story homes built by bricks and loved by large families. It's a nice place.

I remember the mother of the little girl I rescued from the fire - she said she was staying with her parents here. It's a nice place to live, and I'm happy for her. It was nice of her to offer me a place to go, too. It was nothing but kindness on her part. I mean yeah, sure, I rescued her daughter from a flaming inferno - but I was still a stranger in a mask!

The 49th precinct is parked in front of a house, a small brick single-story with blue and white trim. There's a crowd milling around on the sidewalk beyond the CAUTION tape, looking for answers.

The police a rolling a gurney out of the front door of the home, a body inside the black bag. There's a horrible wail that rents the air - two voices, a man and a woman, from inside the house.

"Karen?" I ask quietly, afraid of the answer.

"Yes, Peter?"

"With everything you have access to… anything at all… can you tell me who lives at that house?"

"Certainly. The home belongs to Dennis and Carol Matthews."

"Kim Matthews parents," I fill in quietly. The woman from the fire. From the apartment high rise.

"Matthews is not an uncommon name," Karen says sweetly. It's almost unsettling the way Karen uses AI intelligence for the primary human effort of comfort. "I have many of them located in this area… would you like me to research them for you?"

"No," I reply. I feel a sick, twisted feeling in my gut. I peel myself off the edge of the wall, drop onto a sill below, and crawl - headfirst - down the side of the building. My fingers bracing my body weight against the wall. When I reach average height level, I let myself loose and land in a crouch on the asphalt below.

For a moment I breathe heavily, collapsing with a frustrated huff against the wall. I look up at the night sky and wish I was higher up again. Ground levels distress me. Basements distress me even more. If having a building fall on me wasn't enough, getting kidnapped certainly did the trick.

"Is there anything I can assist with?" Karen asks. "Your anxiety level is fairly high."

"No, I'm fine," I squeak out a reply. I shirk out of my backpack, and tug my mask until it squeezes off my head. Then I tap the spider in my chest, and the suit uncinches.

Karen goes silent.

I slip out of the suit, shaking out my boxer shorts and T-shirt. They're a little tacky with sweat but not horribly. I pull my hoodie and jeans out of my backpack and put them on carefully, peering out from behind the wall and checking corners, lights, and any rustle that I'm aware of.

The spider-suit gets wadded up and placed inside the bag. I wait for a second, almost believing that Karen will ask why it's so dark in there and how can I be expected to look for heat signatures when she's put away.

Naturally I can't hear her outside the suit at all with the earpiece newly repaired, and no loose wires projecting her voice from a severed audio output mechanism in the neck.

The night is quiet, save another cry of grief echoing down the concrete jungle.

I slip the backpack on and trudge out into the parking lot towards the neighborhood where the lights flash on, and off. On again.

I draw near the crowd that has gathered on the sidewalk. They appear to be neighbors; maybe some of them friends.

"Does anyone know what happened?" I ask.

No one hears me.

The paramedics shut the double doors behind the gurney.

"Can anyone please tell me what happened?" I ask, louder this time, my voice shrill.

The man in the yellow rain-slicker in front of me turns and glances over his shoulder at me. "DOA," he replies in a thick Bronx accent.

"Dee… dee oh A?" I repeat, confusedly. "What… what does that mean?"

"Dead on arrival," the man explains. He looks like an old sea salt, someone who belongs in an equally yellow hat battling squalls on the high seas in a fishing vessel. He rubs at the inconsistent white stubble on his chin. "Suicide. Tragic thing."

"Do you know who died?" I ask.

"I think maybe their daughter. Such a sad situation - lovely girl. Had a kid, too. Depressed, though, had a lot of problems, maybe drugs… I don't know. There wasn't a gunshot or nothing - she must of killed herself some other way." He shakes his head. "Really a shame. Damn, she was too young for that."

"What's their daughter's name?"

"Kim," he turns and looks at me, more suspiciously. "You like a friend? Or a reporter, or something? I ain't talking to the press, so you can unquote me on all that."

"I'm - not - a reporter..." I say unsteadily.

"Oh, yeah," he squints me in the darkness. "You're a little young for that."

I reach out to support myself on the mailbox beside us on the sidewalk, misjudge my distance, and nearly fall.

"Whoa, steady," says the man, his expression softening. "Sorry, kid. This ain't no place for you then - get on home. Go on," he gently turns my elbow and shoos me down the sidewalk. "Friends shouldn't have to see this. Go home to your folks now, do your homework."

He watches me steadily until he is sure that I won't fight him on this. When I'm far enough along down the sidewalk, he turns and continues watching the emergency personnel.

I point myself in the direction of Williamsbridge road, where I know I can board a train that will eventually aim me for Queens. It's not a long walk, maybe two or three blocks. It'd be faster with web - but what would I use it on? The chimneys of the one, two story homes? It would work even less than the night of Liz's party.

And besides, I want to walk. I want to think. Think - think - think…

But I can't think. I can barely walk, but I force myself, trying to concentrate on finding the train station. I can do that, just that. Maybe if I can do that, I can figure out what else to do.

I turn my face towards the darkness.

…

Somewhere between the East River and Murray Hill, I find myself on an empty train car. The last occupant gets off, and the doors slide shut.

Then the rocking motion begins again, the clatter of rails, the sounds of traffic passing by outside. Lights whirl speedily by the black windows.

I replay my conversation with Kim over and over in my head. She was a stranger I met twice. But she had connected with Spider-Man, and by doing so, connected with me - but I don't know how to handle that. It's so easy to brush daily interactions with Spider-Man aside as something that doesn't affect my personal life. To some nice lady, I'm a hero who gave her directions. To some guys on the street, I'm a cool hero who does backflips. To Liz, I'm the hero who saved her in the elevator. To some people I'm just a freak in a suit webbing them to a car that they own.

But how am I supposed to calculate what any of these people mean to me? Acquaintances? Friends? Pseudo-humans that lose significance by the fact I'll never see any of them again?

I know the last isn't true, because that's not how heroes function. That's what makes us different - everyone is special and worth saving.

Is Casey Cooper worth saving? My brain whispers nastily back.

I feel the emotions bubbling up inside of me until I can't hold it in. The train car is empty, and my dignity gone. I pull my knees into my chest and bury my forehead against them, sobbing. Wholeheartedly and selfishly. A young woman is dead tonight and all I can think about is how I feel. What about her parents? Her friends? Her daughter?

What about me? I think, unable to stop. What am I supposed to do with this? Clearly I was a GREAT influence on her.

Eventually I sit up, forcing myself to press my forehead against the cold window to try and sooth the throbbing in my skull. There are a few things I am certain about - one, I can't save everyone, right? Uncle Ben, Kim. People whose names I'll never know. Two, I'm so angry about Officer Cooper that it overrides anything else - even something as tragic as this. Even when I should focus on it, grieve in my own way, I still think about him and trying to measure his worth against everything else.

Why IS that? Why do I do that?

At this point I wonder if I should text Mr. Stark and tell him what's going on. But what would I even say? "Hi, Mr. Stark. I'm sad about the guy who hurt me. But I still don't want to press charges, I'd rather handle it and brood. BYE!"

That would be utterly ridiculous.

I do pull out my phone however, but only because it buzzed first.

I am astonished to see it is a text from Mr. Stark, and the timing is both surprising and unfortunate. I feel as if I'm being interrupted somehow.

* * *

Mr. Stark - Not too late to change your mind. Food for thought. Be sure to check your email for

the reservations I sent. You and Aunt May - nice dinner at Ko, two weeks from now. I'll send a car.

* * *

I blink in shock. Ko is one of the most expensive and fancy restaurants that I think I've ever heard of. Never in a million years would think I would ever eat there. I guess when you know someone like Tony Stark with a huge guilt complex…

I type back, simply.

* * *

You - Thank you, Mr. Stark. I know Aunt May will freak out.

Mr. Stark - Karen's been pinging us some interesting locations. You still the friendly

neighborhood guy? Or expanding?

You - Just a little. It's a big city.

Mr. Stark - Certainly.

* * *

My fingers fly over the virtual keyboard to keep him from being suspicious. Of thinking… anything at all. He replies in a reasonable amount of time.

I start to reply, and realize it doesn't warrant a reply.

I've had a bit of a rough day...

Backspace...

Sorry about yesterday, I just wanted to see…

Backspace…

What you thought I was doing yesterday, I wasn't.

Backspace...

But I will. I need to be stopped.

Backspace…

Stop me please

Backspace…

I promised to confide in him when I was overwhelmed like this. And I was doing the exact opposite now.

* * *

You - …

You - …

You - …

You - …

You - ...

Mr. Stark - It's no trouble. I go way back with the people who own the restaurant. My treat. Least I can do.

You - really, thank you.

Mr. Stark - Everything okay?

You - …

You - …

You - Everything's fine

Mr. Stark - Remember when I made you promise me a little something about healthy communication?

You - …

You - ...

You - I remember

Mr. Stark - Anything you want to share with the class, then?

You - just not good

Mr. Stark - what's not good?

You - tonight?

Mr. Stark - Aha. clear as mud

Mr. Stark - So what happened?

You - …

You - …

You - Couldn't save someone in time. She died

Mr. Stark - …

Mr. Stark - …

Mr. Stark - I know what that feels like, kiddo. It's a shitty thing to happen. Sorry.

You - Thanks. Really.

Mr. Stark - Home yet?

* * *

It's simple, and exactly what I didn't expect - but what I needed to hear.

Not sure how he knew I wasn't home unless he personally has my AI pinging my location even when the suit is stuffed in a backpack, but I ignore this.

* * *

You - No but on my way

Mr. Stark - Good.

* * *

...

I get home, late. I unlock the apartment door and slip inside, shutting and relocking behind me. Aunt May is waiting on the couch. She stands, uncertain. For a moment I'm afraid she'd waiting up for me because something happened - she has a look on her face, one that I can't decipher.

"What?" I ask, sharper than I intended.

"You were gone late," she says carefully. "Honey…" She makes a winding gesture with her finger pointed at her face. "You look… not okay."

I don't answer, I shake my head, and I sniff. My eyes are bloodshot.

"Are you okay?"

I drop my backpack on the floor and walk towards her. I think she's surprised when I put my arms around her for a hug. I've been getting taller. I feel like I'm almost too tall to do it without suffocating her.

She responds by suffocating me right back, embracing me and rubbing my back and saying comforting phrases that I forget instantly.

"Sorry if I worried you," I whisper.

"You're worrying me a little right now," she replies, "but you don't have to say sorry for it." She pulls back and pushes hair away from my face. "What's wrong?" she asks.

I shrug, walking to the couch and falling into it with a heavy breath. She sits right beside me, unwilling to give me any space.

"You can talk to me," she urges, her voice pained by my lack of being upfront. "Remember? Anything, anytime. I'm always here for you."

"Someone died tonight," I whisper. "I couldn't save her. Spider-Man couldn't save her." I scrub at my eyes with one hand, and then drop it in my lap uselessly.

She rubs at my back again. "I'm so sorry, Peter."

"She killed herself," I explain. "I feel so horrible about it. And I… don't understand why."

"It's okay to not understand," May whispers. "You can live your whole life and not understand why these sorts of things happen. I wish I did. Because then I could help you." She pauses. "How can I help you?" she asks. "Do you want me to go?"

"No," I say shortly. She wraps her arms around me and doesn't let go.

...

* * *

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* * *

 **Coming Up Next:** Flash Thompson picked the wrong day to annoy the boys. Peter returns to Hell's Kitchen again...

* * *

 _ **EPIC ANNOUNCEMENT - NEW PETER PARKER STORY!**_

 **I've written another HUGE Avengers story and I would LOVE it if you all hopped over to my profile to check it out! It's called Avenge the Departed. It's got everything on the checklist - more Avengers action, Peter Parker emotion/whump, tragedy and fights and suspense... if you liked this story, you'd probably like that one even more. I've pasted the official summary below.**

* * *

 **AVENGE THE DEPARTED SUMMARY**

Peter Parker works as an undercover informant in the Vulture's illegal weapons manufacturing crime syndicate. Bucky Barnes is torn apart by Hydra's programming; his desire to be a friend overpowering the deadly Winter Soldier. Deadpool has joined Captain America in the post-Ultron, fractured Avengers Initiative. Shield and Hydra are in a secretive, deadly combat for control. No is safe and no one can be trusted. Martin Scorsese's THE DEPARTED retold in the Marvel universe.


	28. Flashbacks

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* * *

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Twenty-Eight: Flashbacks

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* * *

...

...

* * *

...

…

"This is weird," Ned gestures to me, waving up and down as if indicating my entire being is weird, but he's looking at my stomach.

I look down at my bare torso, self-consciously slipping the blue P.E. T-shirt over my head and tugging it down. "What is weird, exactly?" I ask.

"You didn't get abs like that doing crunches in this class with me on Tuesdays and Thursdays," Ned intones suspiciously. "Are you like… working out? Like working out working out?"

"No," I squeak. "I mean - sort of! Not really."

"Did you join a GYM?" Ned gasps, looking offended. He glances around the locker room to make sure that we're not overheard.

"Dude no," I protest. "It's… complicated! I'm doing the… uh… internship… for like… six hours every evening. Almost. It's very… physical?"

"It's really a rigorous workout routine fetching coffees at the Stark building every afternoon," Flash's voice whines in our direction. A locker door shuts and Flash's grin appears with a snide, self-important expression.

"I don't get coffee for anybody," I sigh. He really needs some new material, I've heard this one before.

Flash sticks a stockinged foot up on the bench in the middle of the aisle and grabs a sneaker. "Oh… right, I forgot. Not coffee. All the running up and down the stairs in their big fancy building carrying Tony Stark's dry cleaning. Sounds like fun."

"They have elevators, dude," Ned comes to my defense as best as he can, rolling his eyes.

"Well, thanks to someone ditching the most important decathlon event of the year, at least he gets to live the rest of his life without a traumatic fear of elevators," Flash snaps back, tying his show a little too tightly. He kicks the metal lockers a little too hard to wedge his toes into place, and then slams his next foot on the bench to repeat the gesture.

"So we're sorry that you suffer from a traumatic fear of elevators, Flash?" Ned replies, lips pursed as he turns back to me, trying to ignore whatever petty taunt he'll come up with next.

"I don't," Flash presses his hand to his chest as if to say Who, moi? and then drops his hand, his expression narrowing to one of focused cruelty. "Your girlfriend does. Oh wait - not your girlfriend. I forgot. You dumped her at the dance, didn't you?"

I ignore him and turn back to my own locker, struggling to stuff my backpack in.

"And she left you," Flash rattles on. "Everyone leaves you."

I shut the door very, very slowly. Ned's eyes widen. It's almost as if he knows that slamming it would have been a better sign of dealing with this exchange in a healthy way. Instead, calculating the precise speed and click at which I close a single door speaks to an entirely different mindset.

I turn and face Flash, my face entirely neutral.

Flash finishes trying his next shoe and turns his back to me, tapping his toes against the locker again. I approach him quickly, silently, the way Spider-Man might move in on a criminal.

I'm directly behind him, a centimeter away from his face when he turns back around, mouth open with a wide smile as he prepares to spit out another bad joke. When he realizes his nose is almost about to touch mine, he gasps in surprise and flails back, slamming into the locker behind him. "Dude what the hell!" he barks.

"Everyone leaves me?" I repeat, in a questioning tone. "Everyone, Flash?"

"Yeah, like, girlfriends," Flash falters, beginning to stutter. The same way he stuttered when Spider-Man stole his car. The same way he would stutter and beg to be my friend if he knew the sort of cool people I was friends with. Or who my true enemies were. The way he would stutter like an idiot if he'd been the one kidnapped and tortured.

"You've never - seemed to - keep a… relationship," he tries to finish his thought, making it sound less than it was.

"You said everyone," I correct darkly. "Who were you talking about, Flash? My parents? My uncle? My friends?"

I was referring to Kim, now, as incorrect or as misleading it might be… but Flash didn't need to know I was referring to A Stranger Whose Daughter I Rescued. I don't want to overly complicate something for his small, small mind.

"I dare you to say it again," I say calmly, calculatively. "Say it again. Try it."

Ned's mouth is hanging open like a marionette with a broken jaw hinge.

"You think you're so special, Peter Parker," Flash retaliates, his fear dissolving into anger. "Oooh, my parents died! My uncle died, wah, wah, wah!" He pushes me away from him and scrambles to get out of my way. "Everyone dies eventually, Peter! Some of us aren't pitied by the richest man in America and given handouts for it, though! Oh, excuse me," he does sarcastic air quotes with both hands. "INTERNSHIPS!"

He turns on heel and stomps out of the locker room.

Someone around the corner hisses "Ooooooh snap," with a giggle, and the sounds of two or three boys follow Flash out of the locker room and into the gym.

Then it's just Ned and I. I turn and look at him, my facial expression surprisingly… calm and passive.

"Dude," Ned erupts in a high pitched whisper. "What the ACTUAL heck? That was so effing awesome. You've never stood up to Flash before! Not as PETER!"

I shrug. "I don't know what I was thinking. I should probably go apologize."

Ned moves around the bench and launches himself in front of me, holding up his hands. "No, no, no!" he exclaims. "Definitely - do not - do that. If anything, he should apologize. If you follow him out there now it'll only get worse."

"We do have to follow him out there, Ned. For P.E."

"Oh," Ned's face falls. "Right. Class." He jogs in a shuffling manner towards the ends of the lockers and checks the entrance, making sure we're alone, before jogging back. He looks a little winded.

"So, Peter, friend - my best friend - you've got to tell me something."

My eyes widen slightly. I don't want to tell him about last night. I can't - I don't want to think about last night. I was able to talk about some of it with May, but that was all I could stomach. I keep thinking of Kim's face, her daughter's face… what will happen to her, and if she'll understand that her Mom may have left on purpose, but didn't love her any less?

My conversation with her proved that much. I knew that. But could her daughter understand that at this age? Probably not.

Would I keep thinking of these things next week? Next month? At graduation? Or would I forget?

"Hey, hey, focus, best friend talking," Ned waves at me. "You've got to level with me. Is my life in danger?"

"What?" I refocus on him, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, god, I knew it," Ned slumps down onto the bench. "Your first reaction should have been NO… What should I do? Do I go into witness protection? Do Aunt May and I go together?"

"No, wait, stop," this time I take a turn waving my hands in front of his face to make him put the brakes on this entire thing. "You're not in danger. At all. Why do you ask?"

"Well you said… uh," Ned smiles apologetically. "Not to bring up a painful memory from… well… five minutes ago… and… all of them from your entire life… but you mentioned your parents, and your uncle, and then me."

"I did?"

"You said friends were dying. Am I that friend? With like… an evil Hydra's assassin's target on my back?" Ned points at his chest. "I'm I the one that gets kidnapped at the end of the movie for a big showdown with your arch nemesis and rescuing me totally outs your secret identity? Cuz I don't think I'd be cool under torture..." his eyes get bigger as he realizes what just flew out of his mouth. "Uhhhh… I mean… not like you?" He hides his face suddenly.

There's an awkward pause.

"Please reverse time so I can just erase all of that," his voice says, muffled in his shirt.

"No, no, it's not you," I exclaim quickly. "Ned, seriously dude, it's okay- You're not in danger. Not at all. No, no, no."

He pops back out of his shirt, his eyes lit up with recognition. "So it was more of a… metaphorical sort of statement? About friends dying?"

"I was trying to refer to the people that Spider-Man rescues as friends," I whisper.

Ned nods, a relieved grin taking over his face. "So I'm not in mortal danger?"

"No, Ned."

"Ookay… I get it. It makes sense. Sorry I flipped. But I totally get it. Save an old lady from falling? New friend. Saved someone from a mugger? Totally friends!" He pauses. "Oh, but you said… dying friends."

I rub the back of my neck awkwardly, looking away. "Yeah…"

"Do you… want to… talk about it?" Ned looks as uncomfortable as I feel.

I look back at him. "Not really..."

Ned looks shocked. That's not how we usually roll.

"I mean," I amend, "It's a short story. Spider-Man tried, Spider-Man failed. The end."

"Sure thing, bro. Whatever you want," Ned stands and adjusts his T-shirt. The final bell rings and we're officially late for P.E. "But I don't think Spider-Man failed."

I stand too. "But you don't even know what happened."

"But I know you," Ned smiles. "Peter Parker is the one putting on the suit every night. That's a win. You're out there trying to help people… that's a win. You're like the coolest person I know which makes me the second-coolest by default, that's a win. You're totally like - an Avenger - that's a win…"

"Okay, okay, I get it," I fight a smirk, brushing off the praise. If he knew, he might say - or even think - differently. There's a part of me that does not want to tarnish what he thinks of me.

"Look," Ned tries again, seriously this time. "Even if something really terrible happened and Spider-Man tried to rescue one of his 'friends' and that friend still died… it's the fact that he was even there in the first place that makes him a hero. Right? You could have been home. Like… drinking soda and watching another nerdy movie with me. But you weren't, you were out there and that counts for something, right?" Ned shrugs. "I hope every time I show up to class and manage to not fall asleep that it counts for something."

I hate to admit how much this isn't cheering me up, but he's trying so, so hard. And it counts for something, my brain argues.

"Thanks Ned," I say, moved. "That… means a lot to me. Thanks."

"Aw, well..." Ned looks rather bashful. "You're welcome, Peter!"

We fall silent for a moment.

"So," Ned tries, shuffling his feet from side to side. "I wish there was something better to say, but I… I got nothing. I'm sorry he… or she… died. I'm really sorry. You know I'm here for you, bro, right?" He holds out a hand.

"Yeah?" I ask, peering at him beneath raised eyebrows. A pair of light footsteps come walking briskly into the locker room towards the sinks.

"Yeah, duh, always," Ned replies quickly. I take his hand. Instead of doing our special handshake, he tugs on my wrist and gives me an awkward hug, pounding my back with three good thuds, and then releases me before whomever-it-is can spy us having a moment.

"I'm here for you if you need to talk about it. Anytime."

Before I can reply, Michelle in a P.E. uniform and carrying a very large book tucked under one arm, walks purposefully around the corner and comes to a halt in front of us.

"You're late for class," she says brusquely.

"You can't be in here, this is the boy's locker room," Ned exclaims, gesturing around the empty room. "We could have been naked!"

To her credit, Michelle doesn't even blink. "Coach is pissed. I said I'd come get you. Coming, or not?"

"He asked you to come get us?" I ask in disbelief.

"I volunteered," she admits, her hard exterior cracking for a brief millisecond. "But he may have said no."

"Well he's right!" Ned practically yells, using his arms to shoo her towards the door. "Come on! Let's go! Come on!" He looks back at me. "Come on!"

"Right!" I exclaim, following them out of the locker room. Michelle is the first one out, but she gives me a strange look as I brush by her.

"Uh… yes?" I pause and try to replicate her focused attention.

For someone who always says exactly what she means and spares no extra verbiage, she still remains a complete riddle to me.

She gives her chin a little jerk, nodding in the direction of the bleachers, where Flash is sitting and staring at us. He's glowering murderously, wringing his hands together as if he wants to strangle someone.

"Watch your back, Peter Parker," she says.

"Uh, yeah," I reply. "Thanks, MJ."

…

I approach the Midtown South Precinct, hands in pockets. In broad daylight, nothing looks amiss. It shouldn't look amiss. I watch a black speck whir off into the air, eight tiny legs invisible against the bright sky. We'll see what sort of intel I get at the end of the day.

For a moment, I look at the precinct. It's a normal, older building, retro-looking. All brown and black brick with a couple of AC units sticking out of a few upper story windows on the left side.

It looks like its only three stories tall. People don't really realize how many short buildings are tucked away in this city unless you're a crime-stopping hero who needs skyscrapers every few feet for speedy getaways.

I stay across the street. I pull my hood up over my head and dart into an indent between connecting buildings, feeling the suit beneath my clothes. I'm beside a freight entrance, there's almost too much traffic for me to feel fully comfortable, but, it's better than going inside a building and losing my visual, and then getting in trouble for loitering about in some random place for 5 hours.

I sit on the cold cement, drawing my knees up to my chest and resting my chin on them. For all they know, I'm one of the many homeless. Maybe it's cruel to sit here and pretend I'm in need when I don't need anything at all, but I imagine the other Avengers have done worse than wear a gray hoodie and sit on the asphalt.

There's nothing wrong with surveillance. It's the least of my crimes, and certainly one that Tony Stark could not give me any crap about without having to take a serious look in the mirror first.

I wait. I wait all afternoon, evening, night. NYPD cars and vans pass by me like clockwork. I watch the officers come and go; arresting officers, parole officers, traffic officers. Lawyers, district attorneys, prosecutors, jurors, criminals, families, victims, witnesses and suspects. I don't know the identity of the people I see unless they have a uniform that explicitly says so, but I take educated guesses.

Then I see him.

My heart drops from my chest to my stomach, I feel as if my equilibrium catches and ceases in mid-air, as if an entire action sequence in a movie theater was abruptly paused and the reel stays on a single image, flickering and trying to continue spinning.

Officer Casey Cooper comes down the steps in plain clothes, hitching a jacket up over his elbow and pressing a phone to his ear. The movement is so normal and human that it makes him more terrifying. How can someone so evil and primal walk around like this? How can someone not make eye contact with him and know he's a monster?

I scramble to my feet, my movements disjointed, broken, child-like.

He laughs at the phone call. Nodding, gesturing. He crams it between his ear and shoulder to hold it, using both arms to put on his jacket.

"I'm telling you," he's saying. My ears stop ringing with shock long enough to finally hear his voice across the crowded street with diagonal parking on either side. "I'm telling you it's my turn to pick out the movie tonight, hon. We watched your horror film last week. You know I hate that shit." He laughs again. "Yeah, I know, I don't remember anything about the movie, only that I didn't like it. I don't know, I was hoping for a comedy. Something normal with a couple of recurring characters from SNL." He pauses. "Yes. Fine. Anything with Will Ferrell. Sounds good. See you in a bit."

He hangs up, and begins to scan the street. His eyes rove from his left - my right - over to…

I shoot backwards, body slamming against the wall with heavy oomph.

... I can't breathe.

… can't …

I turn and walk like a jolted, wooden doll into the freight entrance of the building. The cement instantly resounds the echo of my footsteps to unreasonable volume, so it sounds as if I am in a massive underground cave from science fiction instead of the entrance of a low-ceilinged parking garage.

Someone at the booth by the yellow boom barrier shouts through the window at me.

"Hey!" says a woman in a thick Bronx accent. "You can't be in here! Vehicles only!"

I turn immediately and skirt back out, feeling lost and dazed.

I shouldn't have come here… I shouldn't have come here… I shouldn't have come here…

I go back to my hiding place. I lean against the wall, trying to steady the beat in my chest.

It feels like Thor's hammer is trapped in my chest cavity and he's calling for it. Any minute now and it'll burst out, blood and lungs splattering against the sidewalk.

I breathe slowly and count down.

Three.

Breathe.

Two

Breathe… and hold.

One.

I peer around the building corner again.

He's gone.

I sink down to the ground again, shaking and trembling, but not from the cold.

The sun sets at last, a blinding golden light disappearing from the reflective windows and surfaces, dropping down behind the building edges and skylines that I cannot see from here. I feel deep within New York city here, as if Hell's kitchen is actually a fissure inside the city, taking us closer to its namesake, but without the heat. My limbs seizing with a biting sensation quickly becoming numb.

I stick my hands in my pockets, resuming my average shuffle, and go back into the street.

Jaywalking once or twice to make my escape, I skirt through traffic, the streetlights beginning to flicker on in the twilight. Business fronts become glowing, beckoning beacons of food and drink, but I have to ignore the good things creeping into my sensory perceptions until I find an alley, far from the precinct.

I put my mask on and climb, the movements as robotic as if my AI took over me entirely. Peter Cyborg has a nice ring to it. If only all panic attacks felt this way… less vomit, less hyperventilating, less fainting. I guess I can subscribe to having more than one kind. Why can't they all be like this? This one feels metallic, senseless, thoughtless. My body is not my own and my mind is a blank box of absolute nothing. I move on pure muscle memory.

When I get to the roof, I fall into it, instead of landing gracefully. Somehow this solid thump jolting through me sort of… reboots my system, I guess. I blink as I lay back on the rooftop, looking upside-down at the air ducts and AC units sticking up like dinosaur-shaped heads rearing out of a canopy.

I sit up and brush myself off. "Hey Karen," I say, sort of sheepishly.

"How can I help?"

"Tell me where Droney is."

"He's following Officer Casey Cooper, as you requested."

"What is he doing now?"

"Stopping at the Redbox Kiosk on 52nd and Broadway."

"Getting a movie," I respond bitterly. "Great!" I send off a stream of web in the direction of the closest, highest building. "Let's go join his party."

"I strongly advise against joining his party..."

"It's sarcasm, Karen," I say, launching myself into the cold of the falling night sky. The last hint of lavender is beginning to droop behind the silhouette of the city's skyline, a row of black, jagged teeth, the spires like needles. A rather painful bite.

But still, the sharp air hitting my body feels good, the adrenaline pumps through my veins and counteracts the racing heart of a panic attack. The anxiety subsides until there is only exhilaration.

Maybe that's it.

Maybe I turn now, in mid air, flip my body sideways in an incredible feat of gymnastic ability, shoot off another stream of web in a different direction, and aim myself for home instead. Maybe I swing all the way there, a hero returning home without harming… or stalking anyone.

If it feels so good to be Spider-Man, why chance it on anything? Why throw it away?

Following a bad guy home isn't throwing it away, my brain argues. Following a bad guy home is honoring the suit - not degrading it. Right?

Surveillance, I repeat in my head. It's just surveillance. I'm not going to hurt anyone.

"What are you thinking about?" Karen asks, her AI voice more confused by human emotion and the vitals she reads from me than anything else.

"We're on mission, Karen."

"What is the mission?"

It's just surveillance, I think again. Easy to brand. Easy to commit to. But I do not answer her.

Surveillance, surveillance, surveillance, I hum to myself. That's all I'm doing. That's what I'm committing to.

Stalking.

No, surveillance!

No, really, this is stalking, it really is.

Out of curiosity, I pause on the corner of a skyscraper, three hundred feet in the air and one hand pressed against it's cool, metallic, reflective side to keep from plummeting downward. I use the other hand to press the empty, spider-shaped pocket on my chest.

Within seconds, the tiny black drone - looking almost happy to see me - comes whirring out of the spilling, golden sunset to tuck its legs beneath him and click back into place in the suit.

"Whatchya got for me, Droney?" I ask.

"The drone followed Officer Cooper home," Karen replies. A small map blips and appears in the view of my lenses, with a little red marker to indicate the route he was taking. "He lives in an apartment complex not far from here. Should I calculate the fastest route for you?"

"No!" I shriek suddenly, nearly loosening my grip too soon on the building I'm clinging to. I'm one monkey suit, three biplanes, and a blond short of a King Kong poster. And King Kong is a… tragic hero sort of character. I don't plan on being one, doing the exact thing that instinct is screaming at me not to do.

"I'm going home, it's late," I say quickly.

Committing.

Committing to surveillance.

"I don't need to go to his home - I don't. I just… I just appreciate knowing where he lives, is all. I can warn Aunt May to avoid the area. And Ned. That's it. That's all I need."

That's not all I want.

"Certainly, Peter," Karen responds nicely. "I'll calculate the fastest route home for you."

Home tonight, I realize, being honest with myself. But tomorrow I'll be back.

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 **Coming Up Next:** Peter's back in Hell's Kitchen, just like he knew he would be. Tony Stark and MJ seem to tag team their concerned interruptions.

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 **Merry Christmas my wonderful readers. Much love and warm wishes to all of you!**

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 _ **EPIC ANNOUNCEMENT - NEW PETER PARKER STORY!**_

 **I've written another HUGE Avengers story and I would LOVE it if you all hopped over to my profile to check it out! It's called Avenge the Departed. It's got everything on the checklist - more Avengers action, Peter Parker emotion/whump, tragedy and fights and suspense... if you liked this story, you'd probably like that one even more. I've pasted the official summary below.**

* * *

 **AVENGE THE DEPARTED SUMMARY**

Peter Parker works as an undercover informant in the Vulture's illegal weapons manufacturing crime syndicate. Bucky Barnes is torn apart by Hydra's programming; his desire to be a friend overpowering the deadly Winter Soldier. Deadpool has joined Captain America in the post-Ultron, fractured Avengers Initiative. Shield and Hydra are in a secretive, deadly combat for control. No is safe and no one can be trusted. Martin Scorsese's THE DEPARTED retold in the Marvel universe.


	29. Studying, Stalking

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Twenty-Nine: Studying, Stalking

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…

Office Casey Cooper is parked on the street.

It's a civilian car, not a marked patrol car. He's loading a box into the trunk labeled Donate. The irony he was giving away old possessions to those in need… I don't - can't - understand it.

I wonder if I am literally the only one who knows he's a monster?

Last night, Droney had followed Cooper home. I knew where he lived now. I'd be doing the right thing - explaining subtly to Ned, maybe even Michelle, that they needed to avoid the area if they could. May would know the full story. I promised I'd be honest, so I would tell her not to ever go close to his address. But I also wasn't going to be telling her that I was going back to Hell's kitchen - again.

Almost every night this week. And for what?

Nothing.

I only had a little bit of time after school, but tomorrow - maybe after the Decathlon drill that Mr. Harrington scheduled - maybe a LONGER surveillance would be in order. You know, follow the monster around all day. Track him. Feel him out. See where he goes.

See if he ends up somewhere alone.

Maybe I'd… talk to him.

I crawl over the side of the building, lenses narrowing in on Cooper. He's running errands right now. He's stopped at a post office, picked up the box labeled donate at the station, returned the Redbox movie.

"Your breathing is shallow," Karen says.

"I'm anxious," I hiss back. "So let up, already!" I pull back into the alcove on the side of the building and try to take a deep, fulfilling breath. When it seems like I have satisfactory amount of air, I look back into the street.

He's gone.

I feel my heart drop in my chest. His car is still there. Where did he go? What if he pulled one of those guns from Toomes from his trunk - and saw me - maybe heard me -

I jerk back into the wall and press myself into the shadow. My breath comes in short, quick gasps again.

"Hey!" I hear his voice call - across the street - just below me. "What are you doing?"

My insides shudder with terror at the sound of it.

"HEY SPIDER-MAN, WAKE UP! I HAVE MORE QUESTIONS FOR YOU!"

The convoluted flashbacks of him shouting at me clatter loudly enough in my head for me to think he's spotted me and he's calling me out. And I'm cornered.

"Hey - yeah, I'm just buying a paper right now, why?" I hear the actual clatter of a paper machine on the sidewalk below me. The slip of small change through the slot and the turn of the knob. He retrieves a paper and steps back into my line of sight, tucking a cell between his ear and shoulder as he relocks the newspaper stand. "What do you mean you have more work? What sort of work? The last one was bad enough even without your boss's damn incentive."

I gulp air with relief.

"A money drop?" Officer Casey Cooper repeats, lowering his voice to a whisper. There's no one on the street but me and him. It's late evening and all the heavy foot traffic is half a block away. "Doable. Way more doable. Let's discuss the details later when I'm not in the middle of the street."

A pause.

"Well, you know, I don't really like you either, so I guess we're even then. Goodbye."

He hangs up the phone with finality, just as the line in my suit starts to blip.

"Incoming call from Tony Stark," Karen says cheerfully.

I can't answer. Cooper is putting his phone away and walking back to the driver's side door.

"Answering call," Karen continues.

Still can't answer out loud - he would hear me - he's unlocking the driver's side door -

"Hello, Mr. Parker," Mr. Stark's facetime call appears in my lenses. I know he can't see my face right now, but his eyes narrow when I don't immediately respond.

Cooper is dropping his keys, fumbling loudly.

"Helloooooo?" Mr. Stark trails on.

Cooper is cursing as he drops the keys a second time… what is wrong with this guy? I thought cops were beyond such normal human trivialities such as clumsiness.

"I can hear you breathing," Mr. Stark says, rather mockingly.

Cooper slides into the driver's seat and shuts the door. I hold my breath unwittingly, waiting for the engine to start.

Mr. Stark's blink in surprise. "Uh - okay - now - no breathing. Peter?"

I say nothing.

"Karen, send me the stats, please and thank you."

The engine roars to life, and he begins to reverse out of his place by the sidewalk.

I let out a loud breath and gasp loudly, "It's kinda hard to answer when I'm in the middle of a stake out and the perp is standing right below me!" I exclaim.

"Oh there's a perp now, is there?" Mr. Stark looks amused, and relieved.

"Yes, yes, there's a perp!" I say frustratingly, watching his car back out of the side street, returning to regular traffic around the corner. In a moment, he's gone. "A criminal, a bad guy, whatever. If I'd said anything I would've blown my cover."

"This stake-out you're on, I don't suppose this is authorized by any law enforcement?" Mr. Stark asks. He's making fun of me.

"No, no, it's not, thank you," I reply joltingly, crawling out of the alcove for the boarded up window, and pull myself hand-over-hand to get to the rooftop. "Just an ordinary thing. Like… a drug deal. Stopping a drug deal in progress, probably. No big deal. Just a normal, neighborhood…"

"And why is that neighborhood Hell's Kitchen?" Mr. Stark asks. "Are you intentionally the kind of kid who lays your hand on a stove to test if it's hot?"

"Uh - what? Huh? Mr. Stark, you're breaking up," I say quickly, leaping onto the roof. "You - might - I - it's - uh - talk - later!"

"I'm not breaking up," Karen says with some confusion.

"Traitor," I sigh.

"Nice try, kid," Mr. Stark purses his lips with some frustration, choosing his next words carefully. "I can't keep forcing you out of Hell's Kitchen every time you go there."

"So don't?" I try.

"You just need to figure out what the hell - no pun intended - you plan on doing if something goes wrong, and you're just the boy with a Wolf problem."

"Uh…" I try to remember the fairy tale and snicker. "Peter's angry grandpa wouldn't let him in the woods to kill the wolf but when he finally does, he saves the village."

Mr. Stark opens his mouth to reply, then shuts its again. "The boy who cried wolf, not Peter and the Wolf. Wrong story. Let's say you've been to Hell's Kitchen - oh, maybe twice. Three times. How do I know if the fourth or fifth is the time you need help?"

"Suit upgrades?" I offer meekly.

"You know what I mean," Mr. Stark says darkly. "This needs to not be a habit. Understand? This is not your jurisdiction. As long as a certain officer of the law is free - YOUR choice, NOT mine - you're to stay away from there. Again, your choice, not mine. Your choice comes with conditions. These are mine."

"Okay, okay!" I say rather defensively. Then I fight off a grin. "So… you weren't referring to the story about the angry grandpa not letting Peter into the woods to fight monsters?"

"This joke is not appreciated, firstly, I am not that old. Secondly, I'm not that angry, that's Banner's domain. Thirdly…"

I back peddle. "Sorry, Mr. Stark. Just trying to be funny."

"I need one more whiskey for age-jokes to be funny." But he IS chuckling, regardless. "Get out of there. Go home. It's late. Please. Just - do me a solid, and figure things out. I'm not going to bust you every single time you're in Hell's Kitchen. But I need you to make some choices here and I'm going to give you the space to do it. Capiche?"

"Yeah. Capiche. And… thanks."

"What for?"

"For… looking out for me?"

"Huh. Well, yes. You're welcome." He clears his throat and blows out a puff of awkward air from his lips, like he doesn't know what to say next. "As for the other matter…"

I wait.

"Wednesday night."

"Oh," I reply in a small voice. "That was…"

"Rough, I know. It happens. It's happened to all of us. It's best not to dwell on it."

"But…"

"No buts, take it from someone who knows. If you stack the preventable deaths against yourself, they will always outweigh you, and always weigh you down. You can't measure your worth - or usefulness in this daily neighborhood stuff - by the failures. It doesn't work that way. I've been doing this since 2008, kid. You have to trust me on that."

I gulp and lean against an A/C exhaust. "Okay. Thanks."

"You'll learn," Mr. Stark says, looking away from his phone for a second. He looks sort of sad. "We all do. We all lose people. I have told only two or three people about this, but the first person I lost - within my first three minutes of being Iron-Man - I lost the man that saved my life. He was in captivity with me and," his voice gives out for a second and he waves his other hand. "You don't want to hear about that, you've had enough of that yourself, just on a shorter tenure," he clears his throat. "It defined what I did from that point on. But I didn't decide then that I didn't deserve to escape or change the way things in my life were going. If I had, I wouldn't be here. I would have given up."

"Whoa," is all I manage.

"Just take it one day at a time for now, Mr. Parker. We'll figure it out. Kay?"

"Uh huh - yeah. Okay."

"All right. I'm hanging up now. Godspeed."

"Yeah, you too. I mean. Thanks… and bye."

"Yup."

And he ends the call. I sigh, and I tap my chest for Droney to return.

With a buzz, Droney returned in about thirty seconds, tucking itself in with a click at my chest and a readout of further movement pops up.

Tonight was a fluke. Sorry, Mr. Stark. I'm still coming back tomorrow. But this time, Droney isn't doing most of the work.

Tomorrow I'm following him home.

…

WHACK. There's an explosion in my forehead and a stinging sensation. I lift my head instantaneously from the desk where I had, apparently, hit the front of my face from falling asleep, my head slipping out of my palm which I had strategically placed under my chin earlier.

No one seemed to notice the thump, except for Michelle, sitting beside me. I stare at our teacher for a moment with glazed-over eyes, blinking to wake myself up, rubbing at the tender spot now in the center of my forehead.

I feel MJ's stare and turn slightly, smirking at her. "I guess I'm sorta tired," I whisper.

"Yeah, uh," she says, her mouth twitching, overcoming laughter with an apologetic frown. "Yeah that was uh - my bad, definitely. My bad. Sorry."

"What?" I whisper, getting confused.

"You started to drift off," MJ admits. "You were resting your chin in your hand and I saw your eyes shut. I, uh… uh..."

"Out with it, Jones," I say, cutting off her inability to get to the point. I've been really trying with her - lately. Trying to exude the confidence that Spider-Man feels, offer the same sort of friendship and humor that Ned often supplies to me. Its hard, and I'm too socially awkward to be any good at it, but I'm trying.

To my surprise, my interruption makes her laugh outright, but quickly makes her face a mask of indifference when Mr. Harrington turns around from the front of the room, glaring for the noisemaker.

When he finds none, he goes back to the board, calculating the top five equations seen in most competitions. I had them already solved on my notepad in front of me within five minutes of the drills. He's starting on number three.

"I bumped your wrist," MJ confesses in a whisper. "I was going to wake you up and… I knocked your arm right from under your head and then you face-planted." She fights back a smile again. "I feel sort of bad and I apologize… but that was some of the funniest shit I've seen all year."

"Heh heh heh," I let out an awkward laugh, trying to keep it quiet. "Apology accepted."

"Why're you so tired all the time?" MJ asks suddenly. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"I sleep when it's bedtime," I respond unhelpfully.

"Yeah, okay, what, are you five?" MJ replies with a cutting stare. I feel like she's reading my mind. It's uncomfortable. "When is bedtime?"

"I don't know… midnight?"

"You go to bed at midnight EVERY night?" MJ hisses.

Flash turns around in his seat and shushes her. MJ immediately snatches her long sleeve back, previously covering her hand, to reveal her middle finger pointed in Flash's direction. Flash makes an L sign on his forehead in my direction, with a sigh of disgust as he turns back in his seat.

"Not every night," I whisper back. "I do the internship after school every day and then I have homework. A lot of homework."

To her credit, Michelle looks slightly sympathetic, instead of her typical 'grow a pair' sort of response and classic eye-roll. "It's cool you do the thing for Stark Industries," she says quietly. "It'll probably look good on a resume." She picks at the tip of her pencil, and then adds a pair of sunglasses to her caricature of Abraham Lincoln. "You haven't been yourself lately."

"Haven't been myself?" I repeat uncomfortably, giving a false snicker again. "What do you mean?"

"Nice try. The way you've been acting the last two weeks."

"How… what did I do differently the last two weeks?"

I didn't want to think about what happened two weeks ago. Or what might happen tonight.

"Oh, you know, just the twitchy jumpiness, big circles under your eyes, freaking out at Flash, zoning out…" MJ looks sharply at me. "Falling asleep in class."

I immediately break eye contact and look away. "It's been a rough few weeks, I guess. Didn't realize it was so obvious."

"You're not that good of an actor."

I give her a half smile. "You never know."

"I do," she goes back to her sketch, adding a Long Island Iced Tea to Abraham's outstretched hand. "You're terrible."

I don't answer, but I smile at her, and shrug, pretending to take notes. I don't need to take notes, I remember. I solved the equations already. Dang.

"Why don't we take a five minute break," Mr. Harrington turns around and glares towards the back row. "Eat your snacks… or… whatever."

The room erupts in an immediate hum of chatter. Ned looks like he's about to make a beeline in my direction, but Abe steps in front of him and immediately begins asking copious amounts of questions. Looks like Ned will be otherwise occupied for five minutes.

"So what happened?" Michelle persists.

"Why do you think it was something specific?" I reply.

"Why do you answer questions with another question?" She glowers at me. "Don't be an ass to me. I'm being… nice."

"Didn't mean to be… mean? Just… clarifying."

"I don't think there's a mean bone in your body. It's conversations you suck at."

"That's… fair."

It's not. I can be mean. I can be cruel. I could test just how cruel I could be against a subject unworthy of redemption… maybe tonight…

"I had the flu," I found myself saying. The same excuse we used for my absence. The pivotal absence, and the main reason I had been acting so weird. If I invented too many excuses or lied further, she may just call me out on bad acting again and then ask if I was lying about having the flu, too. If she started asking… I didn't know how to avoid her piercing suspicion and stick with the story.

"I knew that."

"I almost died," I choked out, then clamped my mouth shut.

Her eyes widened. "You what?"

"It was… a really, really bad case of the flu," I lied again. "Like… really bad. I was in the hospital for two days."

"What the hell?" MJ breaks the tip of her pencil, sighs with frustration, and sticks it into the sharpener she has sitting next to her weird, putty-looking eraser. "Why didn't Ned tell me?"

I blanked. Shit. Tell one lie, then you have to tell a million more to cover it up…

"Remember, my phone died," I began. MJ looked as if she was about to protest the excuse. "And Aunt May was so freaked out she forgot to tell Ned," I continue, feeling relieved when her gaze softens. "It wasn't until I was lucid enough to borrow her phone that I was able to let him know. I didn't have your number then. I'm sorry."

"Ah," she says. It still begs the question why Ned wouldn't tell her, and maybe it hurts, but she drops it. "Well you have my number now, remember?" she looks up at me with a critical, and potentially disbelieving, expression. "Just in case you end up dying in a hospital again without your friends."

Again with the friends thing. I'm fairly certain she means it.

I try not to blush, smiling at her. "Th-thanks. Yeah. I'll call you."

She raises her eyebrows.

"If… I'm, you know, dying."

"Or if you want to… talk about homework?" she supplies. "The far more logical and likely scenario?"

"Oh. Yeah. That. Definitely the uh, preferable scenario."

"Break time is over," Mr. Harrington calls out in an exhausted monotone.

"That was like, thirty seconds," Ned protests loudly, casting an annoyed look in my direction.

"We can… keep having a nice long break," Mr. Harrington says, as if reading a really depressing headline from a newspaper, "or I can accidentally schedule another decathlon drill next Saturday too. Your choice."

Ned thumps into his chair and rattles the desk. "Yeah, the break was nice," he exclaims with exaggerated cheerfulness.

I look up train departures on my phone from stations near Midtown High to Hell's Kitchen.

"Missed opportunity for another nap," MJ says to me in a clipped tone.

I give her an overly dramatic sigh, quickly turning off my phone.

"At least go to bed before midnight tonight, yeah?" she adds.

I nod, feeling myself growing cold towards the conversation, pretending to become distracted with notetaking again. I doodle a circle. "Yeah," I say quietly, as Mr. Harrington taps a pen loudly for attention. "Definitely before midnight."

Per my Droney's read outs, I should be able to track down Officer Casey Cooper when he gets off work no later than… eight thirty p.m.

MJ starts sketching again. In addition to the sunglasses and alcoholic beverage, she labels the bust of Abraham Lincoln with a scroll that says "USA". Then, in a dialogue bubble, she writes

Ah, freedom. Now I can take a 99 year vacation.

I do the math in my head - the Civil War ended in 1865, and 99 years later was 1964. For a moment, I forget Casey Cooper, and I stare at her, then her drawing, and then back again.  
"What?" Michelle hisses, looking annoyed.

"Have I ever told you that you're a really… really good artist?" I whisper.

She starts to roll her eyes again.

"No, no, I mean it," I say quickly. "You're the most amazing artist I think I've ever seen."

"It doesn't even look like him," Michelle shrugs, showing me the photo on her phone that she was using as a reference.

"I know people say that all the time just because they can't do it themselves," I say. "But I'm serious. You're… really good."

She looks at me, realizing that I'm being completely sincere. She starts to smile and say thank… and then pauses and looks back at the drawing. "I am pretty good at noses," she says instead, brushing it off.

"You're amazing," I say.

She glances at me, waiting for me to finish with "at drawing noses".

But the bravery of Spider-Man's quippy - and at times, flirty - verbal tendencies take over. I bite my lip to keep myself from back-peddling when my confidence fizzles out.

"Really… really amazing," I say again. Just so she knows I mean it.

I let it sit.

She tries to scoff and laugh it off, as quietly as possible, and she seems like she's… blushing? Blushing without the color. She's not physically blushing - but - she's acting like she's blushing. She tucks her ear slightly into her shoulder, hiding a smile - choosing to end her scoff with a polite, short, "Uh… thanks, Peter," and returns right to drawing.

I stutter and stumble my way through conversations all the time - this one would be different. I needed it to be different.

Just in case something happens today.

…

The gray buildings whip by speedily through the dirty windows. The train sways a little with the rhythmic clatter of the rails, both a overwhelming input making me with I wore my mask, but also some reminder of home, of New York, and who the kid is under the mask.

At times I try to remember who he is.

My gaze is focused, steely. Staring ahead but seeing nothing but… red. Maybe I had been unsure before… maybe I had no idea what I was doing. Maybe I still didn't.

But I knew today I would do something.

It's technically not premeditated if you wing it, right?

All I knew was that - unlike last week, wandering around without purpose - this would be different. And Mr. Stark wouldn't catch me this time.

I hold my backpack on my lap and fiddle with the earbuds, turning my music up louder and trying to make my mind stop racing. It takes me awhile to figure out what is playing.

Out of Limits by the Marketts. Not sure what - or who this is. Aunt May makes sure my ipod is populated with, what she calls, GOOD Music! ...which means the music is three or more decades old and I don't know what any of it is.

"Hi…"

The music has an uneasy sound to it. Very sixties-retro, a high pitched organ solo over guitar strummings that actually sound a little like an imitation of a chugging, cartoon train.

"Kid?"

From what little I know from band - the minimum that I understood before I quit band, that is - the song might be a minor key, which is why it sounds uncomfortable.

"Hey, kid. Sorry." A hand waves from the seats across from me.

I glance up and quickly pop out my earbuds, looking up with a vacant expression, trying to muster a face of innocence as best as I can.

It takes me a second to realize I am not putting on my innocent face for Tony Stark, whom I half expected to plop down in front of me, demanding why I am - yet again - bound for a certain destination in a handbasket.

"Hey," I reply with uncertainty, to the man sitting across from me. He looks familiar. Almost like…

He looks around furtively, making sure no one is watching us, before leaning forward in his seat so that our knees are almost touching. "It's uh - me, Brian. I'm uh… paramedic. Remember me?"

I gape at him. Brian the paramedic, from the night I emerged half-dead out of the abandoned basement…

"Holy shit," I whisper.

"Uh, yeah, sorry, I know this is awkward," he sits back a little in his seat, giving us more space. The train rocks particularly violently around a speedy turn. "I wasn't sure if you would remember me."

"I - I…" I realized my first reaction gave me away completely. But it wasn't too late to try. "You must have me confused with someone else," I falter.

"Oh, yeah-yeah-yeah, sure thing," Brian waves lightly. "I get it, it's cool. Don't even worry about it. Really," he says this in absolute earnest, nodding emphatically. Then he adds, in a whisper; "Just… glad to see you doing so well, is all."

All the excuses I was trying to contemplate fly out the window. "Thanks?" I reply, hesitantly.

Silence falls, and Brian stares at his hands.

The train catapults us closer to Hell's Kitchen. We have about ten minutes more of this.

"No, I mean it," I whisper. "Thanks. You probably saved my life."

"So it is you?" Brian asks. "God, okay, man… I was thinking I was going crazy."

I must have looked panicked, because he adds, "Don't worry - I never told anyone. Except my wife. Well, parts of it. I just told her the short version. I hope that's okay."

I blink owlishly at this admission. "I don't… I mean… please don't say anything now, I guess?" I look around the crowded train car with trepidation. "Telling your wife… is fine. That's cool."

"Your secret is safe with me, I swear," Brian promises again. "Remember - I literally have no idea who you are. You're just a kid sitting in the same train."

I nod and gulp, a little too obviously.

"Are you… okay right now?" Brian asks, his eyebrows knitting together. The light of a familiar acquaintance leaves his eyes, replaced by a colder, more professional look.

I clamp my mouth shut, unable to answer honestly for a moment. "I'm okay, I guess," I hesitate.

"Is the next stop yours?" he questions.

"Yeah."

"Ah," he nods, understandingly. "I guess there was a part of me that kept forgetting you're sort of… local. I never saw anything after, no legit sightings, at least. So I was hoping you were still alive."

I nod again. "Still crawling around."

"And the - ahem - suit - didn't kill you," Brian infers. I barely remember his protests against my getting into a prototype medsuit. Only watching the footage helped with that.

"No," I reply, "But you were right. It was really uncomfortable in there."

He lets out a pained chuckle. "Jesus, kid."

"No kidding," I try to smile. This is the last thing I need today. But I am going to have to roll with this. "Next time you see Jeff… tell him thanks, too, would you?"

"I'd be happy to. It would mean a lot to him - especially right now."

"Why right now?"

"He quit. He's getting his licensing as a journeyman electrician instead." Brian sighed. "That night really shook him up. He decided he wasn't cut out to do what we do. I think he realized he was sort of terrible at it, too."

I try not to chuckle at this. "He questioned himself a lot."

"It's life or death," Brian replies seriously. "It's certainly not okay to lose your shit as soon as there is an actual emergency and forget all your training. But," he adds this vehemently, "Jeff really did his best. And in the end, he did question himself. He remembered to ask an important one, though."

"What's that?"

"He remembered to ask himself; do I want to do this? And the answer was no. So he quit and started doing something he enjoys."

"Huh," I reply thoughtfully.

"We still hang out with our families every weekend. I'll tell him you're okay. I think it'll give him closure."

"Thanks. Really. If it weren't for the both of you…" I suddenly shudder, and imagine I see a flash of red, and a glint of metal inside. The moment passes in less time than it takes to blink.

"I don't know what would have happened. The tracker in the suit was broken. It's saved my life in the past - but - its not invincible."

"And neither are you, unfortunately," Brian replies. "You… uh… planning on being in Hell's Kitchen a lot? I didn't really think it was your neighborhood. But this is twice now. Am I going to be saving your ass more often?"

"No," I say, and this time the smile is genuine. "That was a one time deal."

"Good, good." Brian leans back in his seat, a bit more relaxed now. It must be a day off, as he's not in his uniform, just a plain black jacket and jeans. Suddenly I remember the cop in the photo, dressed down for some charity event…

"How often do you work with the police?" I ask.

Brian's smile slowly dissipates. "Uh, often. Every damn day. We're called to the same scenes, generally." He leans forward again, lowering his voice. "Why? Why do you ask?"

I bite my lip. How can I help him like he helped me if he might work with the same psycho who tried to kill me?

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" he asks quietly. "Because I can't - I won't - I have no pull, you understand. I know you're young and all, but there isn't much I can do to help."

"It was a cop," I say, shocking myself at my confession - but even as I say it, I feel a huge weight leave my chest. Telling someone who it might actually benefit, rather than someone armed with a giant A logo and Stark-paid lawyers, felt right to me.

"What do you mean?" Brian asks. "Who was a cop?"

"A cop with the Hell's Kitchen precinct," I whisper. "He kidnapped me and tortured me for information on the Avengers. I think he was working for someone like… someone named Fisk. That's what happened the night you helped me."

I could see that the name Fisk rang a bell. What Brian's experience with the name was, I couldn't possibly guess. But the knowledge was there - and it was enough.

His face blanched. "Shit," he whispered. He glanced around the car like he suddenly expected an assassin to pop up and yell surprise. "Holy - shit."

He sits back, and then leans forward again, lacing his fingers together and hanging them between his knees. I can see him slowly comprehend the fact that if he helped someone - inadvertently - who was hurt by someone indirectly working for someone like Fisk - that it was still dangerous enough to have a ripple effect in his own life if he wasn't careful.

"You didn't happen to get a badge number, did you?" he asks carefully, looking up from his hands.

"Nope," I say too quickly.

He looks confused. "Oh. Okay. Damnit." This gives him pause, and he looks worried. "Shit… man, I wish… maybe you could describe him to me. I wouldn't mind knowing, you know? So I can avoid the hell outta him. It was a him, right? I guess it's sort of sexist for me to assume… but… I mean, men are statistically more violent. So."

I'm surprised, and a little amused, that Brian - like me - starts rattling off random statistics when he gets nervous.

"So if you knew who he was you wouldn't say anything," I infer. "You'd just… know who to avoid, yeah?"

"Well - yeah, obviously. I mean - what else would I do? Approach him at the scene of an accident and be like - dude, I know you are a psycho who did a very bad thing to a pal of mine for which I have no proof? Sure. Sounds like a good way to end up looking artfully dead in a basement myself."

"Yeah," I shrug. "We're… uh… in the same boat on that one."

Brian knows this isn't entirely the truth, and raises an eyebrow. "So when does the - uh - bad guy get his just desserts?"

I look away.

"Oh… today?" Brian points. "Is it today? He's getting arrested today?" He fights a smile. "Uh… cool. Nice, I mean."

Wrong.

I play with the cords of my earbuds for a moment. Then I wrap them around my fingers, coiling it, and unzip the front of my backpack. I replace them with a mechanical pencil and a post-it note with the train departure times written on it in my scrawly handwriting. I write on the unused side and fold it quickly, handing it across to Brian.

"What's this?" he asks, taking it from me.

"Don't look at it now," I plead.

"I won't, but, what is it?"

"Who to avoid and not approach at the scene of an accident," I reply cryptically.

His face goes a shade paler. "A name?"

"The name. Feel free to share it with your wife, and Jeff." I stand abruptly, seeing my stop grow suddenly larger as it approaches. "Keep them safe." I scoot away from him quickly, trying to move past people in the aisle to be the first one off.

"Wait," Brian says urgently, before I can quite step out of earshot. "You stay safe too. I mean it. No more craziness for you. Just - god, stay in school. Take care of yourself. Please. You're so young," he adds, in a desperate tone. I am sure he remembers how bad a shape I was in when he saw me last. "My wife and I - we have a kid. A little boy. He's six. I can't imagine if he - if he even came close to doing what you do in a few years. It would kill me."

My mind flashes to Uncle Ben, dead on the street. A bright splash of blood.

Me, unable to stop it.

Can you hear me?

Uncle Ben?

Uncle Ben?!

I grasp the pole in the middle of the aisle when the train gives a jolt to slow down, groaning and whistling to a halt at our stop.

Please wake up…

"I mean, seriously - if you can tell your parents… or a guardian, what's going on… do what you can," Brian urges. I lock the memories away, in a dark box in my mind where they belong. I couldn't deal with them now - maybe never. Now was not the time.

"Protect yourself," Brian says. "Promise?"

"Promise," I whisper quickly. I press myself forward quickly, dodging people moving towards the exits preemptively.

When the doors slide open, I'm the first one stepping into the slashing rainfall under a dirty, canvas colored sky.

I picture Casey Cooper's face and strengthen my resolve.

Not sure how, but it ends today.

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 **Coming Up Next:** Peter follows Casey Cooper to his home and finds something he did not expect.

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 **Happy 2019, everybody!**

* * *

 _ **EPIC ANNOUNCEMENT - NEW AVENGERS STORY! FIRST CHAPTER JUST POSTED!**_

A post-apocalyptic Earth leaves the Avengers scattered across the galaxy and a world in ruin. The defeat of Thanos on Asgard by Captain Marvel is now a legend. Peter Parker finds something he never expected; an infinity stone. He'll do whatever it takes to destroy it before Thanos returns, and he'll need the Avengers' help to do it.


	30. The Monster Within

**warning: (Cap voice) "LANGUAGE!"**

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Thirty: The Monster Within

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"Hell's Kitchen," I narrate out loud, trying to make my high, albeit raspy voice, into a lower pitch. "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy."

I'm desperately trying to cheer myself up. Shove away dark feelings - and the horrible memories that threatened to resurface on the train.

Now is not the time for a PTSD episode. I need all of my faculties.

Trying to do the famous movie trailer man voice, at best, makes me sound like I have laryngitis.

"The sun sets on the darkest burough of New York!" I continue, catching the gravitational pull at the end of my web strand, using the arc to swing me up again out of it, and landing atop a rooftop near the precinct again. I send Droney off for his usual reconnaissance, and I swear the little bug nearly leaves my suit before I command it to out of habit.

I feel like he's… like a pet. A tiny robot pet.

"Little do they know," I continue darkly, watching the drone buzz out of sight. "...that JUSTICE returns to the city ONCE AGAIN!"

"Why are you talking like that?" Karen asks.

"Ah," I clear my throat, planting my hands again over the edge, beginning the downward-facing crawl, head pointed towards the street below and legs pushing away at the wall behind me. "Cuz it's fun."

"But who are you talking to? There is no one close enough to listen."

"Mostly to myself, I guess. And you. And if anyone else watches the baby monitor program."

"I believe I would receive an alert if anyone accessed the program since your abduction," Karen replies innocently.

The word abduction sends a jolt through me, but I push it down and keep moving. "If they ever do, at least the videos will be way more interesting, won't they?"

"At least much funnier," Karen replies, kindly, if it's even possible for an AI. "I do enjoy your impressions."

"Well, thanks, I think you're the only one."

"Your friend Ned enjoys them very much, too."

"And how do you know that?"

"Well, if I'm online when you spend time together, I have noticed that you both seem to laugh frequently at them."

"Huh," I say out loud, reaching down to the ninth or tenth floor approximately, and pressing myself against the cold steel and glass. Here is where I wait. "I feel like I've been such a downer lately. I'm not that much fun to be around lately… but I miss him."

"Ned's browsing facebook right now, he has not gone to sleep yet. Would you like me to place a call? Perhaps you should spend time time together."

"Not… not now," I say, hesitantly. There's a part of my brain screaming YES, go see Ned! Go play video games and do anything else!

"Maybe… maybe next weekend."

"Very well."

Droney comes whirring back, clicking its legs into place. The screen in my lenses light up with a transparent, three dimensional roadmap, showing a moving red blip two blocks away, and growing closer by the second. The non-marked sedan - the one that Casey Cooper drives outside of work - is approaching our location.

"The vehicle will be beneath us in approximately twenty-two seconds."

I maneuver myself into a sort of sitting position on my heels, feet planted firmly against the building, one hand keeping me balanced, the other with fingers ready and pressed against the web shooter.

His car turns the corner, slowly. I shrink back against my hiding place, the large steel frames of the windows giving me some protection from his potential view through his windshield.

I hold my breath inadvertently, waiting -

The car rumbles below, the old engine with the distinct whine of breaks as he stops at a crosswalk, letting a middle-aged woman and child walk across the street.

I stare down and let out my breath, haggardly, confusedly.

That should be Kim Matthews, I think angrily. Shit, that could have been me and Aunt May ten years ago. You could have just run me over then!

I shake my head and focus, waiting for him to accelerate once more and turn for his route home. I send the stream of web to the building across from me, swooping after him. Always one short step behind - a swing to this corner, a drop, a swing to the next.

Always keeping just far enough so that he wouldn't catch me in his rear view mirror. Just high enough to be out of danger of being spotted, just close enough to…

I lose him.

A four way stop and no sign of him.

"Which way did he go?" I ask, in a slight panic. "Karen, can you pull up those readouts from Droney again?"

"His route home has not varied," Karen supplies. "I'm certain if you use the data from the drone's previous surveillances, you'll catch up to the target."

"Okay, light it up," I reply, gritting my teeth. I said I'd follow him home tonight. I meant it. Not giving up now.

In my lenses, a sort of animated filter appears, projecting Droney's surveillance data over the view of what is actually there, predicting his potential turns with red arrows. I follow the suggested markers to the left of the intersection, gaining speed by running along the top of the street lamps, leaping from one to the other until there's another building tall enough for climbing.

From there, I spot his car again, pulling out of the main downtown area. I pick up speed, catching up, and when I get a little too much slack on the web, I slam against a wall with a pained "Oomph!"

Like a bug on a windshield.

"Don't hurt yourself," Karen chides. "We won't lose him."

"Uh huh," I sort of growl back. Having an AI tell you not to hurt yourself after you, by your own strength, body slammed yourself into the side of a building, feels a little unnecessary.

There's small, low-income apartments crammed somewhere between the main hub of Hell's Kitchen and the waterfront. In the main drag where they boast of the "greatest restaurants"... calling it a district instead of a burrough… the atmosphere is completely different. Like they're becoming too good for the rest of New York.

But outside of that, and it's the Hell's Kitchen that everyone knows it to be. It feels darker, dirtier, older. With the cheap rent, however, comes the drugs, the killings, the illegal trades using the waterfront and any private space they can rent as a base for doing bad deeds.

This is where things went down that left both cops and criminals dead, and a vague newspaper article I remember reading about a Devil putting a stop to it. Trying to, anyway.

The boys in red, I think, remembering Cooper's taunt. I wonder if it's a myth. Who knows - maybe they're talking about me!

I lapse into a strange sort of southern accent. "I'm known in these parts as the Red Devil," I whisper, enjoying the possible new moniker.

"Why do they call you the Red Devil?" asks Karen.

'"Oh. Uh. No. They don't, I was just… messing around."

This is where Casey Cooper weaves his web and works - as he put it - for a much bigger guy than him. I wonder what sort of people he works for. Maybe all this surveillance will be good for something someday…

Maybe some cop pulls a gun on me someday, even though it's obvious I'm just trying to help, and I'll look into his eyes and I'll just KNOW… I'll get that instinctual tell that he's on the wrong side. And I'll know which web he belongs to.

…

Casey Cooper exits his car after parking on the street. He goes into a five floor apartment building made of dark, mouldering brick and in severe need of upkeep. I wait and watch for his figure to appear and disappear through each tiny window in the stairwell on the corner of the building, until a light comes on through a window on the fourth floor.

I see him walk haggardly inside, locking four different kinds of bolts on the door, and then toss his keys into a dish.

I cling to the crummy brick wall opposite his apartment window, on an identical set of apartments lining the back of his own. There is a small alleyway between them, a small dribble of water running through the center where the cement declines. There is a large dumpster at one end, and a tiny set of stairs beneath the fire escapes with garbage cans standing guard at each one.

If I see him pick up a trash bag, I'll need to quickly crawl up and over and hide behind the lip of the roofline above me, because anyone taking out their garbage right now would be able to see me without any problem. I'm fairly exposed.

A woman comes out of one of the doors in the apartment, approaches Cooper, and gives him a warm embrace. He clings to her the way one clings to a loved one when you haven't seen them in days. She's wearing a ring - so is he. I haven't noticed it before. He definitely wasn't wearing one when I was in a close enough proximity to see it.

She gestures wildly when she steps back, looking as if she is asking urgent questions. He shakes his head, answering defensively.

I tilt my head, watching quietly. It feels wrong to be intruding on this - but he didn't exactly give me any semblance to privacy when I was trapped in that basement, crying my brains out, while he stood there with my blood on his hands.

Their conversation grows more agitated. He begins to pace, she raises her voice. I can hear her voice now - but I can't distinguish the words. A fearful nausea begins to flit through my stomach, my pulse.

What if their fight escalates? If it turns into something violent - how would I intervene? When should I intervene? This isn't just interrupting any conversation. This could be saving a person who doesn't want to be saved - and revealing myself to someone who will probably try to kill me again.

He almost succeeded once, even almost by accident. I didn't want him to have a second try. But there would be no question of whether or not it would be right to try and save her from him - I know what he is capable of!

I have my doubts that she understands the monster lurking inside.

"Karen," I whisper quietly. "Reconnaissance mode, please."

Karen switches into a zoomed in perspective, lighting up their figures in bright blues and reds.

"Just the audio," I ask, the primary colors of the infrared aggravating an ache behind my eyes. "I don't need heat signatures right now."

"Of course, Peter."

My lenses contract again, and their dialogue begins to crackle and echo in my ears.

"Just tell me what is going on," his wife is begging. It's uncomfortable how close her accent is to Aunt May, and the similarity between their pleas. "You won't talk to me - and I can't - I can't keep dealing with this alone. Not with what's going on. This is a partnership, not a solo ride."

"I know that - okay? I know that," Cooper is replying, his voice low, edged with anger. "I keep leaving you out - don't you think I know that? I do it to protect you - and then I regret it - and then the chance comes around again, and I fuck up again."

"It's eating you alive," she responds, and then bites her lip. "Have you taken your medication at all this week?"

"No," he shakes his head and looks away. "This may not come as a surprise - I forgot."

She puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you take it with dinner? It's in the oven."

He wrenches his arm away. "Yeah. Sure. If it makes you feel better."

Her gaze grows steely. "Yes, it does. And it will make you feel better, too, so maybe stop treating me like shit for it."

Suddenly, Cooper looks out the window.

At me.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I don't have time to move.

So I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.

I was so engrossed in their conversation that I did not sense his movement before it happened. That's the kind of mistake that got me caught the first time.

But he doesn't see me; the light is behind me, I'm just a dark shadow on the backside of an already dark building. His gaze slides back to his wife.

I let out a haggard exhale of relief.

Too close.

Too freaking close!

"I'm sorry - things - at work have been rough," he says, "You know I've been making mistakes. They're starting to notice."

"Tell me about the mistakes," she says.

"No."

"I can't help you unless you talk to me."

"You can't help me, period."

"Stop pushing me away!"

"I'm not pushing you! I'm telling you the god-damn truth! They're only scheduling me for a few patrols a week now, Greg said there are rumors of moving me to evidence storage. I've been picking up on extra jobs to provide for you!"

"If I'm such a BURDEN, I could make it easier for you and just leave!"

"Don't, no, that's not what I meant," Cooper says, utterly distraught, his face gray. "I'm just saying - we're - we're in a rough patch! I get it! Mostly because of my screw ups - but I'm not giving up - are you?"

"No - but," she crosses her arms over her chest. "This is more than just a rough patch in our marriage due to a job change and an illness. Newsflash, that happens to everyone."

"Then what the hell are you so upset about?"

"I'm a little more concerned with the moments where you show up covered in blood and you don't remember where it came from. Or getting paid for extra jobs in cash. When you said EXTRA jobs the first time - I assumed it was a few extra shifts! Not getting paid under the table to come home dripping someone else's DNA all over the floor!"

"That was an anomaly - I TOLD you - they threatened you, our baby…"

"Why didn't you just fucking tell your boss?" she shouts. "You're a fucking police officer! Go by the book!"

"We write the fucking book! Half the force in still in someone's pocket, I can name three guys still feeding information to the Yacuza! Then there's the shit with vigilante's terrorizing people like us just because we're lower class! If it were EASY, we wouldn't be in this mess!"  
"Can't you at least explain to your own wife what the mess IS?"

"For your own safety, and Belle's safety, NO!"

"What about your safety?"

"I don't give a shit about my safety if I'm running on a timer!"

"Maybe if you took your medication once in awhile, we could pause the goddamn timer! Unless you value yourself - and us - so little, that you don't think we're worth the effort?"

Cooper turns purposefully away, running his hands raggedly through the slicked back, blonde hair, causing some of it to come loose. He looks like an animal once the coif is disheveled - and like a cornered beast - he unleashes. But not on her, no. Nowhere close to her.

He turns to the wall and punches the door frame - one, two, three times.

BAM, BAM, BAM!

Bloodying his knuckles.

"Casey! Stop! Shit - stop - sweetheart!"

Cooper collapses on the floor, his chest heaving. His wife puts his arms around him and cradles him, but he shrugs her off too quickly, choosing instead to scrub at his eyes with his fists, as if fighting off a migraine.

My heart is pounding so quickly, I too fight the urge to press a hand to my temple, to try and reconcentrate some of the pressure I feel too.

"I don't want you to kill yourself just for sheer absence of preventable measures," his wife whispers. "Tell me what to do. I'll do anything."

"You already got a job. You already sold your car. I can't ask you to do anything more."

"I'm not talking about our debt - but if there was anything else I can do - to keep you from taking more of these jobs…"

"They're our only option right now. At least till I get the boot officially."

"They can't fire you for a disease you can't control. Look into family medical leave. Talk to HR."

"I did all that… they would have to pull me completely. It doesn't matter if it's discriminatory. You can't justify handing a gun to someone with a deteriorating brain." He looks up at her, eyes wide. He whispers - so quietly even I am straining to hear -

"Sometimes," he says brokenly, "Sometimes I forget who you are."

She sits back on her heels. "It's that bad already?"

"Yes - but - I never tell you. Logic tells me that I didn't just walk into the wrong apartment and sit down to dinner with a woman I don't know. Logic is still getting me through those moments. I can tell myself that I must be married to the one with a matching wedding band."

She tries to touch his hand again, and he pulls away. She wrings her own, instead, touching the ring on her finger. "I'll never take it off."

"I changed my contacts in my phone," he continues, his chest shuddering. "Identifiers first, not names. Wife. Brother. Daughter. Daughter's School-teacher. Otherwise I get calls and I don't know who they are."

"That's a good idea," she says encouragingly. "Why don't you let me help you up? Dinner should be done soon…"

To my surprise, he does let her. When he stands, he begrudgingly accepts her embrace, but seems to push back sooner than she wants, keeping one firm grip around her wrist. Maybe too firm.

"The world is different than it used to be," he says darkly. "We have to adapt - do you understand?"

She looks down at his hand, which he quickly releases.

"Do you hurt people?" she asks. When he doesn't answer, she pushes. "Innocent people?"

He looks her dead in the eyes. Unwavering. "Yes."

A beat of uncomfortable silence.

"You're not giving up on these side jobs?" she finishes, taking a deep breath.

"No," he responds, "Not until I see more cash sitting in savings for you and Belle. When I'm a vegetable and in a home, you will both have something to keep you going. Do you understand?"

She turns away from him, walking into the half kitchen, disappearing from my eyeline. "Yes," she whispers. "For Belle."

Silence falls.

I realize I'm drenched in sweat. A silent sort of panic that I did not realize was happening until my suit feels like it needs to be wrung out.

"I probably scared the kid when I shouted," he admits quietly. "I'll go tell her everything is alright."

His wife does not respond, but I hear the clatter of an oven door.

I watch him move from one room to the other, disappearing behind brick walls. The room window beside the kitchen is dark, until a light switches on. It's a bedside lamp beside a small, pink bed. Cooper stands over the bed, withdrawing his hand from the lamp.

There's a little girl in a bed, hugging her knees. Maybe five years old. Belle.

He sits beside her on the princess blanket, patting the side of her head - his hand is so large is encompasses her entire face.

"What's wrong, Daddy?" she asks, blinking back tears.

"Remember what mom and I told you a few weeks ago?" he says, so gently I can't even believe he's the same man. "About Daddy being sick?"

She nods, gulping.

He taps the side of his head. "It was really hard today. Just meshing up all kinds of stuff in there. But it's okay now. Sometimes Daddy feels better after he yells a little bit. Sometimes Daddy is like that - gotta yell and act like a big dumb bear. A big ol' grizzly bear, doing dumb stuff and breaking stuff - but he always remembers who he loves. Mommy helps that. You help that."

He brushes her hair, tenderly. She's confused, her lips pucker. Her eyes still tearing up.

"Daddy will sometimes forget stuff, but he'll never, ever forget how much he loves you and Mommy. You guys help keep him all better!" He smiles and bends down to her level. "Remember those fairy tales we read you? Like how the princess kisses the frog, or Snow White and Rose Red feed the angry bear till he turns into a handsome prince?"

She nods again, comprehending.

"I have… bad spells. But you guys are my princesses - always will be. I'll never hurt you. Even if I yell a lot. Okay?"

He kisses her soundly on the forehead and she scrambles back - for a moment it seems as if she's trying to get away - but she's not. She's fighting the princess blankets to get out of them, in order to launch herself into his arms. She's so tiny, she barely makes an impact, slamming against his chest and wrapping her pixie arms around his thick neck. "I love you, Daddy," she whispers.

"I love you, pumpkin," he responds, and this time, he is the one trying to hide his weeping. "You're the light of my life."

She's lucky, I think, before I can stop myself.

Lucky.

Lucky to have HIM for a dad? The guy who hurt me?

I can't even wrap my own brain around the contradiction.

I let the stick of my hands fade, and tumble from the side of the apartment, landing with a huff on the ground.

I feel sick.

I choose - instead of swinging, and making it easy on myself - to walk away. I force myself to place one foot in front of the other.

With every step, something in my heart lurches.

The last of my fear siphons away into the cold cement.

I don't know what's wrong with him. If I had to guess, I'd say early onset alzheimer's, or maybe a brain tumor. Something affecting memory, judgment, the capability to handle a firearm…

I shake my head, physically pushing away my conjecture.

Knowing doesn't matter.

I don't deserve to know. And I must force myself to be okay with it. Because I can't live like I am entitled to know everything. That's the sort of attitude that makes you think you can kidnap and torture someone for information. Or kill them for revenge when they do it to you.

That makes me no better than the guy that tried to attack New York with an army of aliens, when the Avengers came to defend the world for the first time. I am not a little god in a universe that just misunderstands my power, that has no gratitude for my saving of it - or hope to save it. This world owes me nothing.

But I owe myself the chance to let something go. Or it will take me over and I'll let myself grow dark right beside it.

I don't… sympathize with him. That's the weird thing about all of this. He doesn't have my sympathy at all - he probably deserves the hardships coming his way.

Not just deserved them - earned them. If he gets in too deep with these side jobs as his wife put it, not limited to kidnapping Avengers-to-be and torturing them nearly to death, I can't imagine what else he's done to other people.

Maybe I was the lucky one.

Maybe others didn't live long enough to deal with it.

For every harm he's committed, maybe some of it is measured back.

So, no. He doesn't have my sympathy. But what does he have - from me?

What exactly is this feeling?

And just like that - I release my grudge. That's it. There's no room for it. Something else takes its place. It happens so casually that I almost don't know it's there - but it is.

Forgiveness.

I am shaking with cold, and Droney returns. I hold out my hand, and the tiny robotic spider settles in my palm, chirping like a happy bird. I slam it back into my chest.

I, Peter Parker, have released Casey Cooper. I'm free of him.

Now I just need to find out a way for him to release me.

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 **Coming Up Next:** When Aunt May makes breakfast, it's time to have a serious chat.

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 **Thanks for all your support, lovely readers! I hope you are having an AMAZING January. To answer a few questions without spoiling too much, but, Wilson Fisk won't be making an appearance in the story, but I really wanted to hint at his existence. Another character you'll surely recognize WILL definitely appear but I can't really say who without spoiling, haha. ALSO I just wanted to remind everyone this is a repost of a previously written story that I finished before Avengers: Infinity War came out, so there's a lot of funny things because of the timing that will come up... like... predicting that Peter's suit will fly remotely out of the ceiling of the Avengers facility, or, using the word "Endgame" totally un-ironically. I'll be sure to point them out when we get there.**

 **Thanks for reading, as always.(hugs)**

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 _ **A NEW CHAPTER HAS BEEN POSTED FOR MY NEW AVENGERS STORIES - INTO OBLIVION AND AVENGE THE DEPARTED**_


	31. Waffle Talks

**warning: (Cap voice) "LANGUAGE!"**

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Thirty-One: Waffle Talks

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Thirty-One: When May Makes Waffles

Aunt May walks into my bedroom without knocking.

"May!" I exclaim, holding a book in front of my face.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks.

I lower the book. "Studying."

"Why did you hide your face?"

I grin unexpectedly. "Habit."

"I am not a hot dog vendor whose cash was just nabbed," she frowns up at me. "Get off the ceiling!"

"It's comfy," I protest. I'm sitting cross-legged on the ceiling, reading my book upside down.

"I made you breakfast."

I pause. "You did?" I sniff the air. I don't smell smoke.

"I didn't burn the waffles, if that's what you're wondering. Toasters have a timer for a reason. Come down."

"I - I will - in, maybe, five… minutes? I'm on a roll. I have one page left and then I'm done with this chapter. No. Wait. Three pages. I'm so close."

"Peter Benjamin Parker! Come DOWN stairs - I mean - DOWN. We have no stairs. Get down." Aunt May waves a butter knife in my direction. "If I had wanted to yell 'get down' all morning, I would have adopted a cat."

I unstick from the ceiling one limb at a time, my hair and T-shirt righting themselves as I lower myself down by a hand, then detach fully and thump onto the floor.

"Hm," Aunt May says with disapproval, reaching for me, and then stopping. "I won't try to fix that hair, not as long as you have three pages left."

I follow her dutifully into the kitchen. She points at the small table in the corner. "Sit."

"Is… everything okay?" I hesitate to ask, dropping into the seat. "You seem…"

"Tense? Worried?"

"Yeah."

"I just got a little call from Mr. Tony Stark."

"Really," I reply slowly, frowning confusedly. "What'd he say?"

She piles toasted waffles onto two plates, putting one in front of me and one for herself.

"Something that came up during our little chat," she says, smacking a bottle of syrup to get the sludge from the bottom to the top. "Is the fact that you've been… going to Hell's Kitchen, precisely what we discussed you not doing as it is the district where he-who-shall-not-be-named works"

"Oh…"

"And you're - you're going back to your old habits of not telling me anything - and apparently, you've been going so damn much that Tony Stark himself has decided he's going to stop by later for a chat."

She hands me the bottle of syrup, and I pause, both of our hands on the bottle. "He what?" I ask.

"Oh - that's the part of that speech that bothers you? That your mentor is stopping by? Where did I go wrong?" Aunt May lets the bottle go. "Maybe we should talk about the part where I set specific ground rules that you are not following?"

I let too much syrup slide onto the plate before realizing and returning it upright. "I'm really sorry I didn't - I forgot - I mean, I'm just sorry. Maybe I didn't forget. I don't know."

She raises her eyebrows.

"I was not trying to intentionally lie to you, I swear," I pleaded. "I think I was…"

"Being careless?"

"Exactly. I was. I have been."

She sighs, and eventually nods. "I expect you to talk to me. Like I said. That hasn't changed."

"Yeah, yeah." Thoroughly shamed, l look down at my plate.

"Eat!" she commands quickly. "You are looking too skinny."

I fight a smile. "Your Italian is coming out."

"Yes, well," she shovels a generous mouthful in, and sighs happily. "Even if I fail to help you maintain your moral compass as a teenager, you will never be unloved or underfed - not under my roof."

"You haven't failed anything," I say quickly.

"I said EAT!"

I hastily obey and practically inhale two waffles completely over-drenched in syrup. When I'm finished, I try again. "You haven't failed me, I keep failing you. A lot. I'm sorry. I'll try to do better."

"I don't expect better. You know what I mean? Not after what you've been through - I don't just demand perfection. That's ridiculous. I just… want you to tell me what's going on. When you struggle. When you're… upset. Or going off grid doing god-knows-what in Hell's Kitchen. You've got to communicate with me." She takes a sip of black coffee and grimaces. "So let's talk about Monday."

I tilt my head. "Um… well. Uh. Going back to school after being kidnapped and tortured is… weird. Especially when everyone thinks you had the flu. But it's ok. Ned got me through it."

May smiles. "I'm sure… I'm sure that felt weird. Was it too soon? I was thinking it was too soon. Should have kept you home forever."

"No, Monday was fine, I guess, but," I pause. "Oh, you meant tomorrow. Not last week."

"I appreciate you jumping right on board the communication train, though."

"So what's happening tomorrow?" I ask apprehensively.

"Your Mr. Stark will be stopping by and he and I will be having a little chat."

"What time?"

"Probably after dinner, but…" she points her fork in my direction. "I expect you there. At least… show up. If you have something to do after school, fine. Do it. But if you are not back here - to at least face up and have a grown up chat - the Hulk's damage could not compare to what I would do to track you down."

"I believe you," I gulp.

"Good!" She sets her fork down quickly, as if suddenly realizing threatening me with a sharp instrument is sort of insensitive. "Now, let's talk about Hell's Kitchen, shall we?"

I try to force a smile. "Sure… what do you… uh… whaddya wana know?"

"First of all," Aunt May questions, "Are you okay?"

I'm a little startled by the question. "Uh huh."

"Explain UH HUH," she imitates.

I nod. "No - I am. I'm okay."

"I'm going to ask you a difficult question, Peter. And I want you to answer it honestly."

"I promise."

"Are you trying to get revenge? On the man that hurt you? Is that why you've been going to Hell's Kitchen?"

I look down at my lap, tearing my paper napkin into small, shredded pieces. "Part of me did," I whisper, my voice shaking slightly. "I thought about things I know I'd never do - like - how satisfying it would be to not be caught off guard, catch him in an alleyway, and beat the shit out of him…"

Aunt May's breath hitches.

"You know me," I say firmly, looking up and maintaining eye contact. "You know I'd never do something like that - right?"

"I thought so," she responds quietly.

"I think - I think my biggest - mistake," I try to explain, "Was entertaining my own imagination and placing myself in his jurisdiction, time and time again, praying for an opportunity where defense could be offense. That's just as bad as revenge. Isn't it?"

"Spoiling for a fight and hoping he crawls out to oblige you," Aunt May offers.

"Yeah, pretty much," I push a few uneaten bites of waffle around my sodden plate. "But I promised you - and Mr. Stark - that I wouldn't do anything stupid. I'd knew I'd keep that promise as best I could. So I told myself I was just collecting data. You know - making sure you and Ned and MJ and everyone else knew where he would be, so you'd be safe. Stalking Hell's Kitchen and pretending it was for the greater good." I met her gaze again. "Sounds really stupid now that I say it out loud."

"It's not too late to sign the accords, press charges, and get him off the streets… the right way."

"I don't think I'm signing those accords until it's illegal to do so and I'm a criminal," I declare brashly.

"Oh, well," Aunt May looks surprised. "That's a very… firm decision." She takes another sip of black coffee and clearly doesn't enjoy it. "How are you going to explain that to Mr. Stark tomorrow?"

I find myself smiling. "In a way that doesn't make him chase me all the way to Germany and recruit MJ and Ned to talk me down in the middle of an airport."

Her eyes narrow. "You don't think he'd do that, do you?"

"No."

"Okay then," Aunt May waves her hand. "Tell me about all this data you pretended to be collecting."

"I followed him around," I confess. "I learned his routine. Found his home. The car he drives when he's not patrolling. That sort of thing."

"It didn't make you feel better, did it?"

"No, it made me feel worse."

"You know, you could just let me at him," Aunt May looks a little too keen on holding her knife. "He hurt my boy - I'll never forget that. I could kill him."

I give her a look. "Not funny."

"Maybe I'm serious."

"I know you're not. You don't hurt people. You released a moth out of the window yesterday."

"You didn't see me beat the shit out of the yellow jacket that got in the window last week!"

"Aunt May, I'm being serious!"

"I know," she softens. "I know… I just… part of me gets it, you know? Maybe I'm a shitty guardian for talking like this - admitting this - but don't think I did not try to think of the ways I could take a baseball bat to his skull. Especially when I first walked into that hospital room and saw your face. I could've killed him like that," she snaps her fingers. "No one hurts my boy. I won't forget. I won't forgive."

I look away again, and I feel my chest constrict. My voice wavers.

"I did," I say in a small voice.

She taps her ear. "You… you what? You did what?"

"I… forgave him."

She stares at me, open mouthed. "When? Today? Is that why you're - you know - smiling? And studying on the ceiling? And generally looking… better?"

"Maybe."

"I'm going to need you to back way the hell up. You just admitted to stalking him and hoping opportunity for revenge might come along. Do you know how scary that is for - for me, if I may be so selfish? For my fifteen year old child to tell me that? What changed?"

"Last night," I explain quietly, calmly, feeling the weight leave my chest again, like the way it did that night. "I just… gave it up. I forgave him. That's it."

Aunt May's lip quivers ever so slightly. "Why?"

I shrug. "It's exhausting to keep choosing the alternative. Every day." I raise my eyebrows in earnest, my eyes watering slightly. "I have to let it go - do you see?" I wipe at my eyes. "After what happened Wednesday - with that girl - and now, it just - it all makes sense, doesn't it? I can't hold on to these things. I can't."

I look down, pushing away tears again. "With Mom and Dad - and Uncle Ben - there's things that keep happening, horrible things, and the more I try to grip the ones that I feel deserve - retribution, or aren't fair, the more I'll bottle it up inside, the darker I feel, the worse it gets… I can't live like that."

She stands from her chair, walks around the table, and kneels beside me, forcing my downward gaze to meet hers. "I don't know how you ended up being so wonderful and smart and kind," she says, her own eyes swimming. "But I've never been so proud of you."

She wraps her arms around me and tugs me in close. "You showing forgiveness to the bastard who did this to you - it's - it's unfathomable. You inspire me. Maybe someday I won't want to kill him."

I nod into her shoulder, and she lets me pull back. "If it makes you feel any better," I say, "there's something - something going on with him. He's heading down a road that - well, it won't lead to anything good. He can't be saved." I let out an awkward chuckle. "Even by me!"

"That's the only thing I can say now," Aunt May replies. "As your guardian… I mean, eclipsed by your kindness and humility and mercy, of course - but - as your guardian, I will say this - not everyone can be saved, of course. You've learned that the hard way. Not everyone can be saved. Some don't want to be. But that doesn't mean we ever - EVER - stop trying."

She's right. Of course.

I smile at her. "Yeah, exactly."

She stands and goes back to her chair, grasping her coffee mug.

"I'm going back to Hell's Kitchen one more time," I say.

She drops the mug down a little too hard, black liquid sloshing over the sides. "Okay?" she asks, worriedly.

I pause. "Being honest upfront. Like I promised. I'm going back."

"When?"

"Monday."

"But Mr. Stark…"

"I know," I say urgently. "It will be a quick trip. I'll be back in time to meet you."

She wipes up the spilled coffee, absently. "Why go back?"

"I have one more thing to do - and - that will be it. Tie up some loose ends."

She raises her eyebrows at me. "You are being way too vague."

"It's because I don't have a concrete plan. All I know is that I'm going to check in on him one more time. That's it. I promise you."

"But why…" she begins.

"Last trip," I repeat, crossing my chest and holding up a hand. "I swear. I need to - I need to stop at the precinct. I'm going to call his bluff. And then I'm leaving - right away."

"Call his BLUFF? What the fuck does that even mean?"

"Don't be mad. Trust me. Please - please - please trust me. I know I haven't given you a single reason to, I get that, I've been misleading you for - well, months, I guess, about everything going on in my life. Please don't be upset. I'm telling you because I'm trying to do things differently. I'm going to Hell's Kitchen tomorrow. Just one more. And then this is all over."

"If you're not back in time," she relinquishes, "And it means something happened to you…"

"Nothing will happen to me."

"Something has already happened to you!"

"But it won't, not again. You don't have to worry." I smile at her. "I have to do this. It's important. Please."

She cocks her head at me. "Are you asking my permission?" She blinks. "You haven't done that… in forever."

"I guess I am."

"I'd be an idiot to say yes."

"You're not an idiot, but please say yes."

"This is all formalities, isn't it?" she wags her hand back and forth between us. "You were planning on going anyway and decided to ask, too. If I say yes, you'll feel better about it."

"If I asked," I correct, "I knew you'd feel better about it."

"Well played."

"I'm not playing. I'll be careful. I swear."

She collects our dishes from the table, with agonizing slowness. She takes them to the sink, dumps them too soon with a harsh clatter, and begins to wash them. The sound of the sink running loudly fills the room. She shuts it off and grabs a towel, and pulls a clothespin from the shelf above the sink. Then she abruptly turns, leaning against the counter.

"Fine," she says. "You can go."

I stand up. "Thank you."

"I expect you to be able to text me if you're okay."

"I will."

"And if you're not back in time…"

"You and Mr. Stark will hunt me down, I know."

She considers me, calmly, and relievingly. "Okay. Now… I've… kept you long enough. Go back and finish that homework of yours."

I nod, a little breathlessly, and turn to leave.

"Oh, wait, take this," she says, and I turn just in time to sense a flying object, catching the clothespin deftly in my hands. "What's this for?" I ask.

"Pin your shirt to your pants so it doesn't fall in your face while you're reading upside down," she explains.

I grin at her. "I didn't think of that. Thanks."

"Mhm."

…

Another school day, trying to act normal. So what else is new?

I peer into the classroom, keeping as much of my body in the hallway as possible so as not to alert the room's occupants that I'm looking in.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Ned's lips come far too close to my left ear. "Just go in."

I flinch and pull myself back, turning to face him. "Don't - don't pressure me," I say, in a completely non-convincing tone. "I'm just… scoping it out."

"You're never going to get anywhere if you're on the outside looking in," Ned quips, and then pauses, and glances up at the ceiling. "Am I quoting something?"

"I don't think so," I reply distractedly, looking back in the classroom.

"I'm not? Should I take up songwriting? Because that's pretty good."

"Yeah, yeah, you should," I say.

"Cool," Ned replies, all smiles. He pushes a finger right into the small of my back. "Just go."

In my effort to pull away from him I find myself scooting into the classroom at an unfortunately urgent speed. Several heads snap up to glare at whoever enters their dominion uninvited.

"Hi guys," says Tiny, standing closest to me with a stack of binders in his arms. "What are you doing?"

"Uh, just, uh," I hesitate.

"Dude, you're in here too?" Ned saunters in behind me. "You're literally everywhere. I thought you were doing chess club."

"I'm still doing chess club," Tiny answers suspiciously. "I also do yearbook. And band." He glances up at me. I feel like I tower over him by a good foot and a half. "You quit band."

"Yes, yes I did," I nod emphatically.

"Why did you quit?" Tiny questions, making no move to set down his load, or move out of my way at all.

"I dunno…" I shrug. "I guess I just got sort of bored standing there waiting to hit a pair of giant trashcan lids together."

"They're cymbals," Ned whispers in my ear.

I flinch at the whisper. "Dude - I know! Stop - stop doing that! You're giving me the creeps!"

Ned raises his hands like I tried to help, dude, and wanders off to the left to look at some photos spread out across one of the work tables.

"Huh," Tiny says. "Michelle said you quit because of the Stark internship."

"I had a lot of reasons for quitting band," I sigh. I hadn't realized this was such a sensitive topic.

"So what are you doing in here?" Tiny finally moves off to set his load down on another worktable. "We don't have ANY pictures of you from Homecoming, by the way. Almost everyone has been asking if we got pictures of them in their dresses. Most of the pictures turned out too dark to use. So… sorry."

I blink. "I wasn't wearing a dress, for one thing."

Tiny gives me a look, like I shouldn't even try to specify. "You'll see if you ended up in the yearbook at the end of the year like everyone else."

"No, that's not… that's not why I stopped by."

The room instantly seems to relax, and three other students sitting at the other end of the room go back to whatever project they're working on.

"I was wondering if you needed more photographers," I ask meekly. "I was… thinking about trying out photography. And the thing is, I don't have a camera, but if I sign up for yearbook, I can use the school camera, and the school dark room, and get you guys a lot of photos… like… you know… student life andl…" I falter at Tiny's incredulous expression. "...cool stuff."

"It's too late in the year to join yearbook staff," Tiny replies awkwardly. "We're full."

"Oh - oh, yeah, that's okay," I shrug like it's no big deal, adjusting my backpack straps awkwardly.

I try to back out of the room without looking and run into Ned, who, once again, is standing too close and too silently behind me. He makes a oomph sound. "Dude," I hiss.

"Wingman?" Ned offers.

"I don't need a wingman to join yearbook?" I reply, pleadingly.

Ned gives me another chastising look, as if he believes otherwise and I'm just too young to understand his wisdom.

"Try for next year," Tiny says.

"What?" I turn back. "Next year?"

"We're losing like… four seniors next year. But you have to actually add your name when the sign-up sheets are out at the end of the year. Okay?" Tiny opens a binder and looks with a critical eye over pictures from the Washington D.C. trip. He rolls his eyes and shuts it before Ned and I can get a good look. "I don't make the rules!"

"Sure. I get it. Thanks," I say this quickly and nearly run over Ned to flee the room.

"Slow down," Ned pants exaggeratingly, following me back out into the hallway. "Since when is joining yearbook a matter of life and death?"

The phrasing hits me particularly hard, and I shake away the flashbacks of roving red and blue lights. The black glint of a body bag, with someone inside.

The coroner rolling it away…

"It's not!" I protest. "I just second guess myself, is all."

"As well you should," Ned replies with some flair. "Keeping up appearances is important. If you suddenly lose all your un-coolness and walk around with all the suave confidence of an Avenger… someone is bound to notice."

"Shhhh," I wave my hand at him and glance around. There's only a few groups still loitering around, heading off to their own after-school clubs or practices. No one pays us any attention.

"No one is listening," Ned promises. "We're still losers." He taps his nose and winks. "Our cover is working."

This makes me smile. "You think?"

"Of course. And yearbook is a nice way to throw them off track. We're simply cementing our roles as incurable nerds. Maybe I should join the chess club."

We both shake our heads simultaneously.

"Nope, just kidding," Ned shudders. "I'll play with Legos and keep my geekiness at home. You're free to join whatever nerdy-after-school-club you can. But I'm through with committing social suicide, thank you."

I close my eyes briefly, as if touched by slim, indecipherable pain, like a paper cut that you can't find. "Let's talk about something else," I say quickly. "I need a distraction."

"Let's talk about Michelle," Ned offers.

My shoes squeak against the linoleum floor when I skid to a halt. A comedy couldn't have placed better sound effects. It makes me instantly look guilty. "Why Michelle?"

"I don't know, we're friends now? She said so. Maybe we should ask her if she wants to study at my house with us after school tomorrow."

I resume keeping pace with him. "Uh… sure."

"What? Do you not want to?"

I don't know what he wants me to say. I wish it were Liz instead - Liz who moved away nearly two weeks ago now? Or I almost like Michelle a little too much to want her to be there when we're just hanging out and goofing around? Maybe I want to keep my cool a little longer? Maybe I just like her in general but not enough to want to hang out?

If I'm guilty of anything, it's my own bullshit.

"Sounds fun," I comment lightly, trying to actively choose to not let my anxieties take the driver's seat for once. "But… tomorrow… I can't. After school, I mean. I have… stuff. You know."

"Say no more," Ned sighs. "Heroes gotta do what a heroes gotta do." His eyes bulge. "That's a quote from something. Right? Is it Firefly? Or… the burnt-faced guy...?"

"I don't know… I don't think so. I think that's all you, buddy."

He nods slowly, his eyes still huge. "Dang, I'm really good."

I turn towards him, suddenly sentimental. "Thanks for hanging out with me. This was fun."

He looks sort of suspicious at my admission. "Uh huh. Yeah. This is fun."

"I know I was sort of awol these last couple of days. There's been a lot of stuff going on."

"I figured, I guess," Ned looks around before leaning in to whisper. "Is there stuff going on with the guy who… y'know…"

I shake my head, at first. "No, not really… I mean, yeah, but there was some other stuff too. Just… Spider-Man stuff."

His eyes light up with intrigue. "Dude, I won't say anything. I promise."

"I'm... well… I'm going to Hell's Kitchen tonight after school. Hopefully for the last time. And I'll be… taking care of something."

He tilts his head with confusion. "Last time? How many times have you been to Hell's kitchen since you were kidnapped, anyway?"

"Too many," I whisper. "But no more. I have one more trip. And then I'm done. I promise."

"Why are you promising ME?" Ned points to himself like I need to be reminded who I'm speaking with. "If Spider-Man has to go to Hell's Kitchen… I mean… that's cool, I guess?"

"Cuz you're my guy in the chair," I remind him. "But I put you in the back seat. I'm sorry. I just need you to hang out there for just a little longer. And then… I don't know. We're back to normal?"

Ned gives my shoulder a gentle slap. "Normal is boring."

"Yeah," I laugh, "Normal."

As much as I try to keep my voice level - and normal - as my best friend, he sees something is off, and I realize he is beginning to zero in on it, like a cat narrowing it's eyes on a laserpoint. He knows when I'm nervous about something.

"This isn't going to be like a Liam Neeson sort of thing, is it?" he asks. "Or Rambo? You're not going to Rambo someone, are you?"

I can't even imagine what he means by Rambo-ing someone. I shake my head. "I don't think so." Not on my part, anyway. And I truly mean it.

"You don't THINK so?" Ned nearly shrieks, way too loud for my preference. We stop at his locker, and he turns quickly, dials the combination, and then pops it open to form a sort of shield for our conversation. He uses the door to glance around, and then speaks from behind it.

"Dude," he whispers. "You need to decide BEFORE you go anywhere what exactly the endgame is. If you wing it and do something like, totally crazy, like, they're gonna know it was you, and then of course they'll know I'm your best friend, and I'm too young for prison - okay?"

I blink. "I don't know what you're thinking, but whatever it is, that's not what I'm doing."

"You're sure?"

I falter. "Yes?"

"Don't say it like it's a QUESTION!" Ned insists in a panicked tone. "Tell me this whole thing isn't some glorified revenge spree where you end up dead and I'm your jailed accomplice."

"Calm down, Ned," I assure. "It's not like that. But I have something I have to do. It might be idiotic… and dangerous… but it doesn't involve cold-blooded murder. Okay?"

He sighs with relief, holding out his hand. "Promise?"

"Promise," I say, and we shake on it. It's our own special handshake, and it's a promise I won't break. "Really, I swear."

But he was right about one thing; I'm winging it, so there's really no boundaries on doing something 'totally crazy'. There's plenty of ways for me to find closure other than murdering the guy… right? That's what I'm looking for. I guess I'll know it when I see it… see him.

…

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 **Coming Up Next:** It's Peter's last trip to Hell's Kitchen, and he may or may not meet a certain character known for traversing that neighborhood that you've all been hankering to see...

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 **Well, readers, this was the time I totally wrote Ned to use the word "endgame" un-ironically WAY before they revealed the title of Avengers 4 and now I'm just head over heels for that coincidence. Freakin' Ned WOULD accidentally say, like, a prophetic spoiler, wouldn't he? The last chapter also contains a hilarious prediction for Avengers: Infinity War that ended up being totally true.**

 **With that in mind, WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY and I should be very careful about what I write because it sometimes comes true hahaha.**

 **Love to all, happy February!**

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 _ **FYI - A NEW CHAPTER HAS BEEN POSTED FOR AVENGE THE DEPARTED**_

 _ **INTO OBLIVION AND WHERE THEY GO are still IN PROGRESS ;)**_


	32. Peter and the Wolf

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Thirty-two: Peter and the Wolf

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The police station smells like mopped floors and body odor. I tug on my sweatshirt sleeves self-consciously, hyper aware that I can run into Casey Cooper at any moment.

It's not difficult to act as if I am supposed to be here. In fact, it's sort of crowded and busy anyway. I fall right into line behind groups of two or three heading back for the main hub where work is done - holding cells, detective's desks, locker rooms, interrogation rooms…

I shudder and walk a little too closely behind a man in a suit carrying a briefcase. I nearly trip on the back of his heel, my toe only just briefly scuffing the back of his shoe by a hair's breadth.

His head gives a slight twitch as he looks at me over his shoulder. But no - I realize, he's not looking at me. I observe with surprise that he's blind, evidenced by the cane tap, tap, tapping the floor in front of him to guide him through any obstacles, and the dark glasses he wears even indoors.

So he's definitely not going to turn around and chew me out. I think he is listening for me, to make sure I don't trip on him again.

I feel bad, like I should say something, but I don't want to start a conversation with someone here when I am most definitely not wanting to get caught.

There's a smaller lobby ahead for going through the metal detectors. I know my web-shooters will probably set them off, so I shrug them off on the inside of my hoodie sleeves. I put my sweatshirt in along with my apartment key and cell phone. Hold out arms for the pat down - done - easy.

The guy in front of me has to put his metal cane in the box too. When we are both finished, he feels each bin sliding along the belt, feeling for his cane.

"Here you go," I say quickly, picking it up and handing it to him.

"Thank you," he replies, his voice sounding strange. Sort of tired, and wary. But surprised.

I pick up my stuff quickly and shrug the hoodie back on, struggling to get my wrists into the web shooters properly without looking at them or revealing them. Not as easy as I thought it would be.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think the blind man was staring at me. Only because he's standing there and doesn't move for a second, his body aimed in my direction.

Eventually he turns and walks through the next checkpoint - into the work areas. You don't go in these areas unless you're a detective, staff, a victim, or a criminal.

The man at the door starts to stop me, but I point at the back of the blind man already further inside.

"I'm with him," I say urgently, feeling horrible for lying - even worse, taking advantage of someone who can't see to help me lie. "I need to show him in to the, uh…"

I don't even get a chance to finish. The guard nods emphatically and lets me inside immediately, waving me through. My heart starts pounding. What happens when I try to leave without the blind guy?

To my left, there's dozens of work stations. Nothing like Mr. Stark's IT room at the Avengers facility. These are real wooden desks, old computers, case files upon case files, phones ringing and someone crying loudly on a bench by a window. It's chaotic and old fashioned, sort of a bullpen. Closer to the work environment of the Daily Bugle, but far more intimidating. And I don't think anyone is smoking.

I'm scanning the room with narrowed vision, trying to figure out where Cooper might be hiding -

I run into the blind man in front of me, who stopped without me realizing it.

He turns to me, his smile… bemused, though annoyed, is calculating. It's weird to have it be all at once, but it is.

"I'm blind, not deaf, you know," he says statically.

He heard me…

"I - I…" I stutter. Shit shit shit.

"Look," he says. "I don't know what you're trying to do here, but whatever it is, it's a bad idea. For you and that technology you're hiding in your sleeves."

I feel like the floor is giving out from beneath me. How did he know…?

"You must have me confused with someone else," I say instead, my voice cracking.

From behind his dark glasses, I swear this blind guy is holding me hostage with a steeled gaze.

"As an attorney," he finally says, as if resigning to one side of an inner debate. "I am allowed to walk through those doors. I will go to the back room and meet with my client. When I come back through these doors, I expect you to be done."

There is absolutely no nonsense about this guy. My spider-sense starts blaring all over the place. Whatever is happening, I don't understand it. My brain is telling me I have nothing to fear from a man who can't see. My spider-sense is saying otherwise, sending bad signals all over the place, the hair on my neck standing up and a chill on my arms. I'm being threatened, somehow, and if I do not comply, this man is dangerous. Very dangerous. My spider-sense is telling me not to push his buttons.

"Okay," I say in a short voice. "I'll be gone in just a few minutes."

"A few minutes," he repeats, lifting his chin to a slight tilt as if he's listening to something. Maybe he's reading my mind. Oh my gosh - maybe he's an inhuman. Or enhanced. Or whatever the special-cool guys are called. Gifted?

The only loophole that's kept me out of the accords so far. I'm no inhuman, I got my powers accidently by invention and a lab accident on a school trip. No alien changes or born-with-it stuff.

I can't tell what this guy is, either. Maybe he's enhanced from his own peculiar set of circumstances.

"Just a few minutes," I repeat. "Then I'm gone. I swear."

He lowers his chin. "Very well. I will alert the police to your whereabouts if you are still here when I come out."

I nod, and then I remember he can't see it. "Yes, I understand," I say, maybe too loudly.

He turns abruptly and uses his cane again, walking back to the cinder-block hallway colored a slight greenish color. He walks like he's blind, but…

I shake myself and walk into the wide space with all the desks.

And just like that - I spot the top of a head - dark blonde hair slicked back, a high forehead creased with concentration. He's sitting at a desk.

Office Casey Cooper, in the flesh, once again. Not in a car on a street below - not in a building across an alley.

In front of me.

Working, normal-looking, writing on a piece of paper with an old fashioned pencil…

Before I can even recover from my close encounter with a random defense attorney threatening to call the cops on my sneaking in, I am finding myself staring at the man who tried to kill me.

I feel my heart nearly shatter in my chest, it's pounding so hard, my blood pumping with fear and adrenaline. My skin prickles with a cold sweat.

The closest I've been to him since he had me shackled up, stabbing me and taunting me.

I did exactly like he said that I could not do - march into the precinct as Peter Parker. I remember his warning about half the force being in someone's pocket - maybe that's why no one even noticed my presence now.

Why no one but an attorney tried to stop me. Maybe most of them are just as bad as he is, and won't address my presence anymore than a thief would grouse about stolen goods.

I don't know how, but it's time for Spider-Man to be put away for a moment, tucked in a drawer, away from sight. This is for me, Peter Parker.

Closure - like I told Aunt May.

I can hardly stand, my fear and panic is clamoring too hard in my head. I sit carefully on a bench on the wall beneath the window. Two benches away along the same wall at my left is where the woman is crying. Someone eventually walks over to her and hands her a tissue box. She begins to talk loudly in French. At my right, the hall heads for the back where the defense attorney is probably having a nice, calm chat with his client.

Casey Cooper breaks his pencil.

For a moment he stares at it, flummoxed. Then he looks in a cup of random items on his desk, looking for a replacement. It's full of pens, a letter opener, a fork, and -

A knife. The handle of iridescent pearl.

The knife.

I feel my breath hitch, my lungs constricting. He kept it. He kept the weapon he used on me. I've heard of serial killers keeping trophies… body parts, driver's licenses, purses. But I didn't necessarily think that other kinds of bad people kept trophies too. But I remembered the nurse saying the room had been swept for evidence… no knife. He had kept it with him. I remembered him putting it in his pocket. Shit.

Cooper doesn't find a new pencil. He begins looking in his desk drawers, clattering the desk, the cup of pens rattling.

Suddenly I realize what I want. I want that feeling of power back. If he kept it as some sick reminder that he GOT me, I want to remind him that he didn't succeed - and won't. I'm still alive. I hold the power over him. Maybe I've forgiven him, sure. But he manipulated me - made me think that I was the one that would lose everything if I outed him, pressed charges, marched into the precinct as Peter Parker and tried to make a case for it.

But it's not true. None of it is.

I have everything I need. I'm the one that holds the power over him. I'm the one that could destroy his life if I wanted. I'm the one free - with the evidence - the Avengers - everything.

I want him to understand that.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Cooper stands up with frustration, looking behind him at more desks, towards a back wall where dozens of filing cabinets stand tall, and on top of one in the far corner is an old, crank-handle pencil sharpener.

I almost - almost - suddenly grin when I remember MJ handing her pencil across the desk aisle at me, practically begging with her eyes to take the damn pencil and stop clicking my mechanical one with my anxiety. Cooper's affinity for not using another writing tool gives me my perfect opportunity.

He turns his back and walks toward the wall.

No one else is looking. The woman crying in French has her face buried in a tissue. The other desks are facing the other direction, backs point to the left and right, the hallway beside me briefly empty - the security guard waving people through and keeping his eyes entirely upfront -

There's only one empty desk between where I sit, the walking space of linoleum, and the desk where Cooper sits.

Enough space for this to be dangerous. But not enough for it to be the most noticeable thing.

It's better than walking up and taking it.

I press my middle fingers to my shooter, a silent WHZZZHT of web shooting across Cooper's desk, landing with a muffled tap on the handle of the knife. It was idiotic - it was stupid - what if I missed? What if I was not as precise as I thought I was?

All that practice in my room picking up items off my own desk would have been for nothing if I failed this now.

I twitch my hand deftly back, the knife yanked out of the cup, knocking it over, spilling the letter opener, fork, and pens across his paper. It hardly makes a sound, none of it falls to the floor. Just on his papers.

The knife sings through the air back into my hand, the web re-siphoning into the cannister like a fishing line reeled in with a dangerous catch.

I stand abruptly, the knife in my hand. I hold it loosely, my fingers ice-cold against the grip. This is the same thing he plunged into me. Is this rust, on the sharpened end, or is it blood? My blood?

Cooper returns to his desk.

Sees the upset cup of pens. Looks down, confused, shrugs, replaces them.

Then looks up at me.

My heart may have been slamming before, but now it feels completely still.

There is nothing in this moment. No reaction. Nothing exists except him, and me. The sounds around us fade to absolute nothing.

His eyes are blank with - confusion. A slight head tilt - he's trying to place me.

He doesn't… recognize me.

He doesn't know who I am, I can see it as clearly as he sees me. Even as his gaze drops down to his own knife in my fist.

That's when it clicks.

No rage - none of the murderous, sadistic monster that cut me open for fun even when I wasn't awake enough to answer a question.

I see only the person who worried for a daughter named Belle.

His eyes are full of fear, when he realizes who I am. A single drop of the eyes that flicker to the knife, to my face, then back to the knife again.

He says nothing - does nothing. Only a slight purse of his lips indicate he is withholding any words at all; maybe even just an exclamation, a curse.

Office Casey Cooper drops like a dead weight into his chair. He looks prepared to meet his maker. I called his bluff, and he knows it. What I could do to him in this moment - it means both everything and nothing. None of what he said matters, and he knows it. This could be the end of his life as he knows it, and he realizes there is nothing he can do to stop it.

I put the knife slowly - agonizingly - in my pocket. My gaze is hard, unyielding. Gone is the stuttering fear I had before - the panic. Only resolve and strength and pure adrenaline focus my energies into remaining in complete control.

Control over my life, and his.

I drop my chin with almost an indecipherable nod, as if to say, I'm keeping this. You have no right to it - to me - any longer.

No more.

The power at play here is obvious. I remain standing. He is sitting behind a desk, his face a mask of utter vulnerability. I am taller than him in this position. I hold my own almost-murder-weapon in my pocket. He knows he'll never see it again.

He drops his gaze, to the papers on his desk. Then he looks back up again, something flickering in his eyes - something like self preservation trying, and failing, to kick in. I need to leave before he remembers how to use it.

I turn to my right and begin to walk back to the hall with the metal detectors and the security guard. I feel the scrape of a desk chair behind me, hesitating for one last look over my shoulder.

Officer Cooper has stood, and he holds a binder in his hands. He walks around the edge of his desk - to the open area with the benches -

For a brief millisecond of panic I wonder if he's about to follow me -

But he goes to the crying woman.

Sits beside her, opening the binder.

"I need you to look at the mug shots," he says, his voice is shaking considerably "Can you point out the man you saw?"

She nods, her crying calming down. She takes the binder carefully from him and begins to flip through the pages.

Officer Cooper looks at me one last time, and then turns away. He knows that he is utterly dismissed by me. He's returning the favor, but on the losing end. Letting it go - recognizing my mercy. By the look on his face, by trying to work and go with the muscle memory of his duties for today, he's hoping I don't change my mind.

"This - this one," says the woman in broken English.

"Thank you," he replies.

I walk into the hall and nearly run into the blind attorney aiming for the entrance.

"I would apologize," he says dryly, "But you're the one that keeps running into me."

"No, I'm sorry," I say quickly. My spider-sense is not flaring with warning as it did before - whatever this man was thinking before when sizing me up - he's not thinking it any longer.

I wonder what changed.

"I'm leaving," I say, anyway. "I promised. I'm leaving now."

"Well," says the man, "If you plan to keep your cover, lead the way."

I blink. Using the phrase keep your cover sounds dangerous enough, but him willing to help me - for no reason at all - makes me suspicious. Hopefully he doesn't have one of his own weapons from Toomes stashed somewhere nearby.

I walk stiffly back towards the security guard, my knees knocking together. The adrenaline is wearing off. I feel the blood draining from my face. When we pass by a glass window between the hall and another room, I see my reflection, and my face is as gray as brain matter. I don't check to see if the attorney follows.

I head for the exit running parallel to the metal detector entrance, feeling urgency quaking through my chest and stomach. I'm going to be sick, I realize. Another panic attack is threatening to take hold. If I could just get rid of the nausea, I could just rid myself of the panic. Clean myself out.

When I'm finally outside, bright sunshine hits me with a square, yellow force of warmth, trying it's best to curb the cold sweat and chills racing through me as a prelude to vomit.

I walk stiffly down the steps, turn right, and at least get to the curb, where there's an open storm drain. I put my hands on my knees and lower my head, gagging. My throat groans with horrible sounds and my lunch from school splatters indecipherably against the grating and sliding down inside. Some people walking down the side walk on the opposite side look over with disgusted faces, hoot with laughter, and move on. There's no one else around, nothing but traffic squeezing by.

Except, my sense warns, the attorney standing on the steps. Watching me.

I vomit again, tears streaming down my face from the burn of the acid in my throat. But that was the last of it - thank god. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, straightening.

"Here," the attorney hands me a tissue from his pocket, tucking his cane under one arm to leave one hand free, the other holding his briefcase.

I accept it carefully, not really sure what to make of this good samaritan move, while he had come across so dangerously before.

"It's not used," he says, with a very slight smile. It changes the whole demeanour of his face when he smiles - he goes from a man about to snap to a genuinely warm person, albeit a bit lost. There's a sadness in the smile I can't place. "I keep a packet on hand for clients," he explains.

"Thanks," I say raspily, using it to blow my nose and wipe my mouth. I ball it up in my hand and I'm surprised to find him taking off his glasses.

I certainly had to have imagined the moments earlier where it felt like her was looking at me. He's definitely blind. His gaze remains entirely unfocused and gentle, unhurried and blank, gazing slightly past me and on the ground. He aims his face for me, no eye contact. I try to remember why I doubted his blindness before and can't really recall why. Maybe he's just really perceptive.

"Are you all right?" he asks carefully. There's something professional, but compassionate about his tone. Maybe in another life he would have made a good schoolteacher or a counselor instead of an attorney. I bet his clients feel relieved with him on their side.

"Yeah, I am now," I say. "I just - well, I…"

He waits.

"I faced the devil," I whisper. Maybe it's melodramatic of me, but it's the truth. My own personal devil.

He visibly flinches. "You what?" he asks. His voice low. Deadly.

Spider-sense flares up in a surge of ice and fire up and down my spine.

"Metaphorically," I say quickly. "But I'm done now. It's done."

Instantly, the danger passes. I'm confused by it - frightened, even. But I won't provoke it. Whatever IT is.

The man relaxes instantly. He holds up a hand. "You don't have to explain to me what you were doing in there - in fact, it's best that you don't. Plausible deniability, you know. "

"Okay," I swallow painfully and nod. "Um… thanks, though. It was nice of you to - you know. Help me in."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says curtly.

"Uh huh," I respond. Like he said, plausible deniability.

"But whatever it was that you took," he raises his eyebrows slightly. "Whatever you have hiding in your pocket. I hope it was worth it."

My flight, fight, or freeze kicks in. Shouldn't run. Can't fight a blind guy. So I freeze.

"Was it worth it?" he repeats, sternly.

"Yes," I whisper. "Yes," I repeat again, more sure of myself. Firmly.

"Good," he drops his chin almost like a nod of approval and puts his glasses back on. "Don't let me catch you in this area again," he says. Still kind… but fierce.

The warning bell in my spider sense gives a slight vibration. There it is again - the danger. "Stay out of Hell's Kitchen," he says. "You're not from around here. You're young. Stick to your own neighborhood."

The way he says neighborhood instead of burrough is confusing. Almost as if - almost as if he knows about my hidden identity - my nickname. The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But how could he? He's a complete stranger.

"Okay," I reply, nodding. "I will. I promise."

"Good boy," the man unfolds his cane and turns away from me slightly, beginning to head the opposite direction.

The fear and panic from before slowly disappears, and I feel myself relaxing.

I did it.

I really did it.

I faced Cooper and lived to tell about it.

The attorney looks over his shoulder at me. Not looking, I guess. Listening. He too loses a tension in his shoulders that I did not realize was there.

He relaxes and resumes his walk.

I have a feeling we'll never cross paths again… but I wonder. Who the hell is he?

I suddenly remember to pull out my phone and text Aunt May.

On my way home. I'm safe and I'm fine.

It takes barely half a second for a response.

I love you.

I've responded to this phrase so often that my phone suggests it, I don't even have to type it out. But I change one word slightly.

I larb you!

I return my phone to my pocket, then turn and I walk the other way, aiming for the west. The cold breeze that smells slightly of food and trash wafts towards me.

Next stop: the river. One more thing to do before I go home and face Aunt May and Mr. Stark. I wonder what that meeting will be, exactly. A check in? A scolding?

One step at a time. River first.

Peeved mentors later.

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 **Coming Up Next:** The Final Chapter! Peter has a little talk with Tony Stark and Aunt May, and we come full circle to just before Infinity War.

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 **Just a reminder to everyone I wrote the following chapter BEFORE Infinity War came out, which is why the epilogue might seem a little sparse. If you are enjoying this and want more content in-universe, feel free to watch Infinity War after this fic is done, and then jump right over to "WHERE THEY GO" which is a sequel to Infinity War, basically a "in-canon interlude" between Avengers 3 and 4: Endgame. You can consider this one an interlude between Spider-Man: Homecoming and Infinity War.**

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 _ **FYI - A NEW CHAPTER HAS BEEN POSTED FOR "**_ _ **WHERE THEY GO"!**_


	33. Into the Future

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Thirty-Three: Into the Future

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It's over.

It's really truly over.

I was free, physically, when I walked myself out of the basement garage. Now I'm free for the rest of it - mentally, spiritually. Maybe emotionally will come later.

Casey Cooper knows it. He has to know that by taking the knife back, I was showing him mercy.

He knows I had the power to destroy him

and chose… the alternative.

I'll always choose the alternative - or try to, anyway. I'll always need to. For people that can no longer choose it themselves. Kim, Cooper, even sometimes the Avengers, or Aunt May.

I lean on the iron fence between me and the Hudson, resting my chin on my arms. The water doesn't smell all that pleasant today, and it's chilly. But the sunlight feels good, and the current laps loudly on the cement breakers below. A boat races by.

This feels nice. Calm.

I finally feel normal. So normal in fact that I nearly forget about the knife burning in my pocket. But I take it out now, mulling it over, examining it without really seeing it. It's just a piece of nothing. And it's out of HIS hands…

So it should be out of mine, I guess.

I draw my arm back and throw it out into the Hudson as far as I can. The sheer distance that it arcs, turning over and over with energy and sunlight glinting off the metal end, speaks to the super strength I have hiding inside me - showing exactly why I could never join a football team. I would be outed before one could spell Midtown.

Only my superior hearing can pick up the tiny splooshtt it makes when it breaks the surface of the Hudson river, bubbling once as it dips down, down, down - sinking into the dark, murky green beneath.

That's it. It's gone forever. There's a part of me that hopes that I throw in all the PTSD with it, but I know that's not necessarily likely. It will take a little time, but I'll get better. I know I will.

I'd rather just pretend that day never happened… but I know that's not realistic at all. I can't guarantee I won't run into one of the players again. What if I swing by Brian during a crisis? Maybe I can't say thank you again. But it seems cruel to pass him by and give him nothing. Maybe a nod… maybe a thanks. I hope someday if we make eye contact in any way, I hope the gesture is understood. Without ever having to talk about it again… or think about it. I hope they can give me that.

I don't know about Casey Cooper, but that hardly matters. He's made his bed. I'm done with him and I'll never see him again - I feel it with a certainty in my gut. He can't be saved. Taking his weapon from him was… the least I could do. Because I could not do nothing.

I can never do nothing.

Just because someone can't be saved, I think Aunt May had said, Doesn't mean that we ever, ever stop trying.

I hope the next time an opportunity comes to make a difficult choice, I can do it. Hopefully I don't screw it up. But I can't think like that now.

I can only wait for the next thing. Hope that when it gets here, I'm ready for it. And I'll show the rest I haven't been damaged by what happened, and they won't handle me like I'm liable to break. I'll be ready to become an official member of the Avengers then, and I'll make them proud.

I tuck my hands in my pockets, smiling to myself. The sunlight glints off the water as I turn away, whistling to myself, marching towards home.

…

I open the door to the apartment and look inside. I feel a sudden flashback to last year - the day Tony Stark marched himself into my life and compromised my secret identity and then I went to Germany and fought half the Avengers with the other half and was a total fanboy over Captain America.

Feels so long ago.

"There he is," Aunt May says, her voice pleasant, albeit a bit tight.

"Running a little late tonight, aren't we, Mr. Parker?" Mr. Stark asks as I pop out my earbuds and put my backpack down on the floor, shutting the door behind me.

"Hopefully not… too late?" I say carefully, giving them a sort of guilty grin.

"I told Mr. Stark you were coming home soon," Aunt May says lightly, "From Hell's Kitchen."

"Aha," I say, not surprised by this at all. "Well - uh…"

"Do you have something to tell us?" Mr. Stark asks. He has that Stark-ish jovial expression where he's probably had a nice, sunny day full of riches and deals and god-knows-what (I really don't know what rich people do at all) with a slight cloud of concern behind his dark brown eyes. Where he is prepared for the worst, but inevitably, hoping he does not hear the bad news he expects to ruin his perfectly good day.

I shrug. "Nope."

Aunt May opens her mouth, then shuts it again.

Mr. Stark looks at me over the back of the couch. The flashbacks are astounding. They are sitting in the exact same way that they were the day I met him. Only this time Aunt May is wearing her glasses and her post-work outfit, jeans and a T-shirt. We both look sort of frumpy compared to him - Stark is dressed immaculately in a suit. Per usual.

"May Parker here was just telling me that you went back to Hell's Kitchen to tie up some loose ends," Mr. Stark says, his eyes glinting behind his own glasses. "I was hoping that this meant you had something for me."

I blink. "Uh - no? What're you… what do you… um… no?" I am not sure what he was expecting. Did he know about the knife? HOW would he have even known about that? Yeah, I took it back, and even if he had eyes in Hell's Kitchen keeping an eye on me AND the precinct - I didn't keep it. I'm not handing it over for evidence in Cooper's attempted murder trial. It's not happening.

Mr. Stark's eyes narrow at me. "Are you ready to press charges against a certain officer of the law?"

"No," I say so quickly, so firmly, that I surprise even myself. I keep my chin lowered, gaze even. Almost mirroring the position of power I took over Cooper. It's different with Stark, but… he still can't make me do anything I don't want to do.

Can he?

"But honey…" Aunt May begins.

"No," I repeat, interrupting. "We don't have to worry about it. He won't be bothering us anymore."

Mr. Stark blinks at me as if he's about to pop like a surprised balloon. "What, you think I'm just going to leave that statement alone….? You sound like Marlon Brando!"

"Who is Marlon Brando?" I ask.

"I forget how young he is," Mr. Stark laments painfully.

"This isn't funny," Aunt May stands up and crosses the room to me, hugging her arms to prevent the alternative of hugging more answers out of me. "What happened? You can tell us."

"Nothing happened," I say. "That's the point. I'm not lying. NOTHING happened, and it's just… he won't do anything. I know he won't."

"You didn't TALK to him, did you?" Aunt May asks.

"Did you - did you do something?" Mr. Stark asks, and I can hear real concern in his voice. "That day - in Hell's Kitchen… when we talked. You sounded…"

"No - no, and no," I repeat. "You're both thinking the worst - nothing happened, I didn't do anything. That's the point. We don't have to do anything. He's not - there's something going on, with him. He's terminal."

"Terminal," Mr. Stark repeats.

"I had a long talk with Aunt May yesterday," I explain further, addressing Mr. Stark directly. I have my doubts that he would understand what I meant about forgiving him, so I don't want to go into too much detail. "I've made a decision to be done with this - with all of this. Officer Cooper is suffering from a terminal illness. I don't know what it is. Maybe dementia or something - but - it's killing him. He's losing his job. I went to the precinct today one last time…"

Aunt May braces herself for the worst.

"He didn't recognize me," I say. "Not entirely, anyway. But I called his bluff and he knows it's over. We won't have to worry about him for much longer, anyway. His own brain is going to get him in the long run."

Mr. Stark is shocked. "I didn't know this…" he seems to be chiding himself on his own lack of knowledge here. It's not something 'his people' would have picked up, even if they were following May and I around for our own protection, or if he had people stationed in Hell's Kitchen watching Cooper. The symptoms really didn't show.

I only knew because I eavesdropped on an intimate conversation between him and his wife.

I take a deep breath. This is my final word.

"I want you - us - to leave it alone," I say, exhaling carefully.

"But - " Mr. Stark begins.

"Leave it alone," I say evenly.

I'm calm. Firm. I need him to take me seriously. He can pretend there is a huge gap between myself and him, constantly referring to him and the others as "the grown ups" and myself as "the kid". But I need him to recognize that it is truly my right to say no to this - to any of this.

The silence is heavy, impenetrable.

"I don't expect you to understand…" I say as gently as I can, trying not to be condescending. "But… I don't… I want to pretend this never happened."

"Peter, that's not… entirely healthy…" Aunt May tries.

"No, but it is what I need," I explain. "Please. If I'm ever going to step out of this shadow. I need it. I have to put it behind me." I swing my head back and forth, looking at each of them in turn. "You have to let me do that."

They look at each other, and seem to have a speedy, three-second conversation in a grown-ups only language with their eyes.

"We'll never talk about it again," I whisper, my voice breaking slightly. Don't lose it now, Spider-Man - you've held it together thus far.

"Please," I add.

"Well," Mr. Stark says. He pulls of his glasses and polishes them a bit. I recognize a tell for his own emotional state now - he thinks by fixing the glasses he can distract us from the tightness of his chin, his own eyes stinging ever so slightly. "Kid's making it pretty clear how this is going to go."

I don't respond.

"He's usually not this bossy," May responds. My god, she's trying to be funny.

"Then," Mr. Stark rises from the couch, straightening his jacket. "Just consider this a friendly drop by visit then. Checking in on you and the fam. How's that geeky friend of yours?"

"Ned's good," I crack a smile. "He said he wanted to take up songwriting this morning."

"Only if he sings them with that hat of his," Aunt May says. "I'd go to that concert."

"Do me a favor," Mr. Stark says, "Don't invite me."

"I won't," I reply, a little too quickly.

"Well, I will leave you to it," Mr. Stark drums out a sort of short, fanfare beat on his legs and adjusts the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. "Nice to see you both, as always." He comes around the edge of the couch and shakes Aunt May's hand. She smiles rather warmly at him. "Tell Ms. Potts I say hello, and congratulations," she says.

"Oh - uh, uh - I saw the news, I'm sorry, I forgot, been sorta… busy," I stutter horribly. "Congratulations. That's - amazing. She's cool. Really cool."

"Thank you both," Mr. Stark's very Stark-y demeanour washes away for a moment to show a man just all too happy to marry his longtime love. "I'll tell her." He turns to me, and he claps a hand on my shoulder.

"You're a good man, Mr. Parker," he says. "Don't forget what I told you. Let Happy and myself know if you need anything - anything at all. Okay? Got it?"

"Got it," I reply, remembering his offer of getting me in touch with a counselor. I mean, hopefully I wouldn't need that, but you never know. My PTSD and his are a little different. Mine was part of the underground crime thing… dirty cops and information-seeking.

He was defending the world from aliens and got sucked into space and was nearly trapped in a wormhole forever. I can't help but feel that his is far, far worse. That's something that will never happen to me! I'm just down here. With the little guys. Still...

"You know that suit that you showed me at the facility?" I ask carefully.

"Yes?" Mr. Stark asks.

"One of these days - if I need it - I don't suppose it has like a cool Iron Man sort of homing beacon thing where I like, hit a button and it summons it out of the facility and blasts through the ceiling and answers my call?"

Mr. Stark releases my shoulder, throws back his head and howls with laughter.

"What!" I bleat. "I'm being serious!"

"I know," he says. "You turned it down, remember?"

"I'm curious!"

"Mmhmm," he taps the side of his head. "I think you'll be re-considering that offer."

"Not yet," I shrug. "But like - the suit. Maybe it doesn't like, answer a summoned call. But can it go in SPACE?"

Mr. Stark shakes his head, but he's not exactly saying no, just expressing his laughing disbelief at my sudden curiosity. "You don't wana go into space, trust me," he chuckles, slightly painfully.

"What if I do?"

"We're not going to let you go into space, pal. That's a big no."

"For once I agree with Tony Stark," May exclaims. "I don't know where all this is coming from, but that's a definite no."

"I was just curious about the special features on the suit," I throw my hands up in surrender. "That's all."

"Certainly," Mr. Stark winks at Aunt May and aims for the door.

"Does the suit I have NOW do any cool features you haven't told me about yet?" I call after him.

"Goodnight, Peter, May," Mr. Stark is chuckling still, throwing up a hand in farewell. He sees himself out and shuts the door behind him.

Aunt May throws her arms around me and gives me a huge, grossly wet kiss on the cheek. "I love love love you," she exclaims.

"Ugh," I cackle, pretending to lean away from her embrace. "What's this for?"

"You just small-talked the smartest, richest man in the world out of our apartment!" Aunt May grins. "I am aghast."

I shrug with a bashful laugh. "Anything for you, Aunt May."

She hugs me, tightly and fiercely. "No… anything for you, my sweet boy. Forever and always."

I grin at her and quip back, ending a turn of phrase we've said to each other since the first day I came to live here.

"Forever and infinity," I reply.

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Epilogue

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SCHOOL BUS

Some Time Later

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Back to the ordinary.

It's difficult to comprehend how the little things - getting a sandwich, coffee, going to school - taking a bus - it's blissful, even, by comparison. Mundane by the absence of everything else I know to be out there - like the Avengers and their likely wars of cataclysmic proportion.

A spider crawling up the wall seems insignificant when you place it on a scale meant for giants.

But that doesn't mean I can't do what I can, in the capacity that I have. And maybe something will call me to something bigger. Where - I don't know. I couldn't begin to guess. I'm young, and I get it. But I'll be here when it, whatever it may be, calls me.

Light streams through the bus window; I'm too distracted to notice whether it's sunlight or a portal opening to another dimension. It could be anything. But the point being that light can't exist without darkness; but maybe I can help hold it back. In a small way.

It's there on the bus - I feel a pull.

My senses are on edge. It's like hearing the strain of a song that you know the lyrics to but can't put a finger on it. That extra sensory perception that I've slowly developed over time - more than just quick reflexes. It's a whisper, a Spider-sense, raising the hairs on my arm as if there's a sudden chill.

I look down at my arm in surprise.

What is that?

There's the call - a tug to sharply look over my left shoulder through the bus window to identify the sudden darkness in my peripheral vision. Something unchecked, and cosmically out of place in the New York skyline.

I turn my face towards the light. I'll always turn to the light.

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THE END

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Dearest Readers,

I wrote a huge farewell speech of gratitude and love and about surviving life's hardships and... my computer suddenly glitched and the whole thing went "blink" and was gone. All of it. I am quite disheartened about this, haha. So, you're getting the incredibly condensed version. Here goes: Thank you for coming on this journey with me, I didn't want it to end, this lil' fan fiction book got me through a lot of tough times when a client at work committed suicide. Because of your dedicated readership and of course the help of my amazing beta QueenofCrystallopia, I'm quite proud of how my very first Spider-Man fanfiction came out. It was definitely more of an emotional-character-based story instead of plot, and I feel a lot was improved between the first non-linear version and this one, with the inclusion of added scenes and fixed plot holes and dialogue. Thanks for re-joining me and giving me a second chance to improve and grow as a writer. Thanks for all being there with me. You guys are the best. If you would like to keep supporting me as a writer, feel free to check out my other fics. "Where They Go" functions as probably the better version of a sequel to this story, despite the fact it picks up immediately after Infinity War ends. I'll hopefully be posting the last chapter for that story before Captain Marvel's release next weekend. If you'd like to see what else I'm up to in life, feel free to follow me on instagram! it's myapapaya_adventures. Hope to see you there! Thanks again for following me along through this harrowing character build through the streets of Hell's Kitchen and Queens. I definitely hope to go back there many, many times.

Hugs,

Pip

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